Court and Spark
by Ragua
Summary: T'Pol visits the Tucker homestead. Continuation of Challenges and Homecoming. Updated: Chapter 8. FINALLY!
1. Chapter 1

**Court and Spark  
  
by Ragua**

**Chapter 1**  
  
T'Pol walked slowly down the gravel path. It was undisputedly illogical to situate the landing pad at such an inconvenient distance from the primary domicile. Then again, the occupants of this house were not the most logical of beings. Most humans were illogical when compared to Vulcans, but this family seemed more genetically predisposed to such behavior than the average _homo sapiens_ of T'Pol's experience. The fact that her visit was a personal choice emphasized to the young Vulcan her alienation from her own species. She replayed the unpleasant incidents of the last several days in her mind.

* * *

You resigned your commission, Ambassador Soval reminded her. As your position with the Vulcan High Command was apparently not of sufficient importance to you, it would be ill-advised to reinstate you. He came as close to scowling as she had ever seen him. The other Vulcans present—elder statesmen and -women of the Vulcan Consulate, forming a hastily assembled tribunal—nodded their agreement with Soval's judgment. How could we be assured that you would not simply resign again, when the next whim took you?  
  
T'Pol refused to rise to his baiting. My decision to remain on _Enterprise_ was hardly a whim,' Ambassador, she replied calmly. Not only was our mission successful, numerous research and exploration possibilities have been discovered. As you will note, the scientific data accumulated during our time in the Expanse is valuable, and will further many areas of research currently under study. And Starfleet is making the information available to us... She paused for effect. ...despite the fact that we provided no assistance to our allies during the Xindi crisis.  
  
Silence greeted her words, but she knew that it indicated a distaste for her statements rather than any chagrin on the part that Vulcan had played—or more accurately had _not_ played—during the past nine months. It was ironic. Her foolhardy experimentation with Trellium-D, and the emotions it generated, had enabled her to see through her fellow Vulcans. As much as they wished to deny it, emotions influenced many of their actions and decisions as well. They appeared not to suppress the emotions so much as to refuse to acknowledge them. T'Pol raked their hidebound faces with her skeptical gaze.  
  
It would seem that you will require some time before coming to a decision, she continued, appearing to back off her confrontational statement. I will leave an address where I may be contacted for the next few weeks. She paused again for effect. However, I believe I should inform you that a prompt decision would be advisable. Several eyebrows rose at this presumption. Admiral Forrest has offered me a Starfleet commission, and Captain Archer prefers that I remain on _Enterprise_ as First Officer. I have postponed accepting this offer until I have heard the decision of the High Command on this matter.  
  
Though the facial expressions of the older Vulcans could not have altered more than a millimeter or so, T'Pol knew naked shock when she saw it. Overcoming a desire to smile at their consternation, she bowed her head in seeming respect and briskly walked from the conference room.

* * *

The house leapt into view suddenly as T'Pol rounded a corner. She knew the edifice could not be more than 100 years old, yet it seemed aged, venerable—but welcoming at the same time. The wide, wraparound porch and moss-covered roof beckoned the Vulcan, and something inside her said, _This is home_.  
  
As T'Pol moved toward the house, she spied a familiar tuft of blond hair just beyond the porch railing. She paused for a moment, but her presence was not acknowledged. No greeting was offered. Puzzled, she mounted the porch steps, never taking her eyes from the still figure, which sat on a wooden bench of some sort. The bench was not mounted on the porch, but hung from the ceiling on chains, allowing it to move back and forth with its occupant. The current occupant dozed on the strange swaying chair, an open book facedown on his chest. Obviously, Commander Tucker had fallen asleep as he read.  
  
He's been sitting out here waiting for you since lunchtime. A soft voice startled T'Pol. She looked up to find Mrs. Tucker standing behind her on the porch.  
  
It was not my intention to inconvenience you, T'Pol apologized. I would have been more specific about my arrival time; however—  
  
Mrs. Tucker patted the air with her hands, effectively silencing T'Pol. Don't you worry about that, honey. I knew that afternoon' most likely meant closer to dinner. The human woman gazed at her son affectionately. But he's been so eager to see you, that he decided to take it literally. And he's literally been out here since 12:01! Mrs. Tucker smiled. But don't you dare let on that I told you so!  
  
With that, Charles' mother reached out her hand for T'Pol's duffel. The Vulcan hesitated a moment, then handed it to her hostess. She began to follow as the human woman turned to go inside the house, but to her surprise, Mrs. Tucker stopped her.  
  
No, no, honey! He'd be angry if I stole you away as soon as you got here. Why don't you just sit out here until he wakes. I'll bring you some tea while you're waiting. She left T'Pol standing on the porch, uncertain of what to do.  
  
The Vulcan turned her attention back to her...her what? What _was_ Charles to her? How could their relationship be described? T'Pol was still unsure. At the very least, he was her good friend. At the very most...?  
  
She studied his sleeping form carefully.  
  
His hair was more uniform in appearance than the last time she had seen him. Someone—T'Pol suspected his mother—had cut the non-burned side so that it was roughly the same length as the singed side. It now stood up in prickly spikes all over his head, with only a vague semblance of having been recently combed.  
  
The only bandages she could see were tiny: a small patch that ran along his right cheekbone, and a thin strip covering the outer edge of his right ear. There were probably other bandages beneath his clothing, but they were not visible. All in all, he appeared much healthier than when she had last seen him two weeks ago.  
  
As if aware of her scrutiny, Charles opened his eyes sleepily. It took a moment for his brain to compute the visual input, but once it had, her friend leaped to his feet.  
  
he cried in surprise, nearly toppling over in his enthusiasm. Belatedly, T'Pol noticed a crutch leaning against the porch, within arm's reach of the swinging chair. Standing unaided was apparently beyond Commander Tucker's current ability. The Vulcan stepped forward hastily, to catch him as he swayed on unsteady feet.  
  
Commander, you should sit, she advised sternly.  
  
You're finally here! he said delightedly, grasping her forearms as both a means of support and in welcome. How was your trip? The directions were good? You found the house okay? The engineer took a deep breath as if preparing to launch into another series of questions, so T'Pol took the opportunity to head him off.  
  
My journey was without incident, Commander. Your directions were quite adequate, she answered. As he continued to beam at her foolishly, she went on, Please sit, Commander.  
  
He hesitated a moment, and then, in what T'Pol realized was an ingrained response, he stepped back and swept his hand toward the swinging bench, stating with well-taught graciousness, After you.  
  
Unfortunately, the commander's automatic courtesy took him one step too far from T'Pol's supporting hands. His knees wobbled and began to give way. One flailing arm caught the swinging chair by its chain, slowing his fall. It gave T'Pol enough time to step forward and get an arm around him. It did not, however, allow her to brace herself to take his full weight. They fell to the porch in an undignified heap. Although she realized that they must present a comical picture, T'Pol felt only relief that she had landed beneath him. Logically, he would be less likely to suffer an injury as a result—she was much softer than the wood of the porch.  
  
Her friend appeared mortified by his clumsiness. Oh, geez, T'Pol, I'm sorry, he blurted as he floundered about, trying to rise and at the same time help her to her feet. His attempts at chivalry impaired his ability to correct the situation. T'Pol had to grab his hands before he did further damage to either of them.  
  
Charles, please remain calm, she requested. You are exacerbating our predicament.  
  
He sighed, giving her a chagrined look when he was finally able to meet her eyes. Guess this isn't my most debonair moment, he mumbled ruefully.  
  
T'Pol felt a smile try to escape her rigid lips, but footsteps on the porch announcing a new arrival led her to curb her expression of amusement. Tipping her head back, she was startled to see the upside-down visage of Charles' father grinning down at them. He was carrying a tray, most likely the tea that Mrs. Tucker had offered earlier.  
  
Hey there, T'Pol! Glad ya finally made it, Mr. Tucker welcomed boisterously. You kids sure don't waste any time, do ya? he continued, giving them a knowing look and a wink. Well, I'll get out of your hair so you two can continue your sparkin'. He set the tray down and sauntered back into the house, whistling jovially.  
  
T'Pol had not believed Charles could look any more embarrassed than he had after falling on top of her. She was mistaken. In fact, she was alarmed. It seemed unlikely that a human face was meant to turn that shade of purple.  
  
Charles, have you injured yourself? she asked in concern.  
  
He could not look her in the eye. Not physically, he muttered sourly. With a little effort, he managed to roll off her and sit up shakily. T'Pol quickly got to her feet and helped him into the swinging chair. He continued to avoid her worried gaze, scratching the back of his still-red neck.  
  
Sorry about that, he finally spoke up.  
  
It was not your fault. You are still weak from your injuries, T'Pol consoled. And regardless, you have already apologized.  
  
Now he looked at her. No, I mean, I'm sorry for _that_, he said sheepishly, inclining his head in the direction his father had gone.  
  
You wish to apologize for your father welcoming me to his home? T'Pol asked in confusion.  
  
Well, no, Trip stammered. I wanted to apologize for the, you know, the...um...the innuendo.  
  
T'Pol felt her brow furrow. I do not understand. She looked expectantly at her friend, but he seemed unsure how to continue. Your father's remarks were of a suggestive nature? she queried, attempting to facilitate his explanation.  
  
Sort of, Charles hemmed. He pondered his father's words for a moment. I guess it wasn't all that bad, he admitted. I mean, it's probably what he'd expect of a— He stopped abruptly, finally looking her square in the face. Well, of whatever we are. A courting couple? A cautious, hopeful grin lit his face. Is that what we are, T'Pol?  
  
The young Vulcan considered his question thoughtfully. She had wondered the very same thing only a short time earlier. Now she evaluated the question analytically, mentally ticking off the criteria she considered necessary for his hypothesis to have merit.  
  
We _have_ expressed our mutual affection for each other, she acknowledged, meeting his eyes briefly. We exhibit a preference for spending time in one another's company. We periodically engage in physical displays of affection. T'Pol nodded firmly. Yes, it is logical to assume that our...interaction has evolved into a formal courtship.  
  
His grin became wider. He reached for her hand and gave it a firm squeeze. She returned the pressure.  
  
Charles leaned back into the swing and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. T'Pol stiffened for a brief instant, then relaxed into the gentle embrace. After a moment, Charles pushed off slightly with his feet, setting the swing in motion. Earlier, T'Pol had wondered at the logic of a swaying chair. Now as its mesmerizing movement soothed her, she wondered no longer.  
  
she asked after several minutes of pleasant silence.  
  
He seemed as relaxed as she.  
  
Your father's words implied that sexual activity is an accepted behavior in human courtship. Would that be an accurate deduction?  
  
Given his previous embarrassment, she expected him to be uncomfortable with her question. The tensing of the arm around shoulders and the red flush that crept up his neck to his ears confirmed her suspicions.  
  
Um, not exactly, T'Pol, he replied, his eyes darting away from hers.  
  
Then I have misinterpreted the colloquialism the Vulcan reasoned.  
  
Well, no, Trip conceded, scratching his head in puzzlement. T'Pol realized that the term must be fairly complex. Perhaps it encompassed many different aspects of courtship ritual? She had best learn the details quickly, in order to avoid misunderstandings with his family.  
  
Your father believed that, as a courting couple, we were engaged in she stated. What does sparking' entail, if not carnal relations?Well, it's what courting couples do, Charles responded after a moment of consideration.  
  
That tells me very little, T'Pol commented drily.  
  
Sparkin' can be lots of different things. It can be what my dad thought we were up to, or it can be what we're doing now.Sitting down? T'Pol was perplexed. There was a great deal of difference between engaging in sexual activity and reclining on a swinging chair.  
  
her friend asserted. In the olden days, when they had chaperones and everything, that's all the courting couple got. He smiled nostalgically, as if he actually remembered these olden days personally. Back then, you really had to make the best of your time with your honey, cause you didn't get a lot of it!  
  
This statement clarified things slightly. So you would say that sparking' is spending time with the object of one's affection.  
  
He turned to look at her, eyes twinkling, a warm smile lighting his face. He tipped his head to one side, before adding, What you do isn't as important as who you're with.  
  
T'Pol flashed her own unpracticed smile for a nanosecond, before turning forward and setting the swing in motion again. It is quite pleasant, she decided.  
  
Charles tightened his arm around her shoulders. It sure is, he agreed.  
  
The swing creaked softly, as if agreeing with their assessment. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Court and Spark  
by Ragua  
**

Disclaimers in Chapter 1.  
  
A/N: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it's too early in the season for berry-picking if they're in the same timeline as Zero Hour. And I know that there aren't a hell of a lot of marionberries in the southeastern U.S. But hey, it's the 22nd century. Who's to say they didn't hop on a transport and head across the continent to go berry-picking at Sauvie Island (Oregon)? That's why it's called fan-FICTION, people!  
  
**Chapter 2**  
  
T'Pol gazed down with a profound sense of satisfaction. It had been a battle, and she had not come away unscathed. Her attention turned momentarily to the numerous scratches on her arms and legs. Several were oozing blood, dotting her clothing with green spots. Her opponent had fought her every step of the way, but she had achieved her objective.  
  
A full basket of marion blackberries.  
  
It certainly had not been easy. She had crushed the first few berries by applying too much force when attempting to remove them from their vines. Dark purple splotches accompanied the intermittently spaced green spots. But once she had figured out the correct amount of pressure to apply while gently twisting the small pieces of fruit, the task had been accomplished swiftly and efficiently. Mrs. Tucker would no doubt appreciate her efforts. Apparently the small fruits could be turned into any number of earth dishes. Pie, of course, but Charles' mother had also spoken of jams, preserves, and even wine. T'Pol was eager to observe the procedure for converting the fresh fruit.  
  
She glanced at the sun overhead, attempting to gauge how much time had elapsed. More, it seemed, than she had anticipated. Ordinarily, such inefficiency would have bothered the Vulcan, but since her arrival three days ago, a sense of calm had descended upon her, unlike anything she had ever known.  
  
She gazed into the distance, pondering her current situation. How ironic that she should find serenity in such a setting and with such companions. And yet, the last three days had been so peaceful that she had not found it necessary to meditate!  
  
Charles' convalescence required that he still do a great deal of sleeping, so T'Pol's mornings were spent on long, pleasant walks with Mrs. Tucker. Although the women might discuss various topics during their outings, neither felt obliged to do so. Silence was just as comfortable as conversation.  
  
In the afternoons, Mr. Tucker usually invited her to his workshop—an old barn behind the main house—to inspect or assist with his motley collection of The man had an affinity for ancient Earth transportation devices, and there were numerous specimens from different eras in various states of repair. His favorite was something called a 57 Chevy, which was, according to Mr. Tucker, (Apparently comparing a device powered by an internal combustion engine to a piece of fruit was an indication of mechanical superiority.)  
  
T'Pol shook her head in wonder. The young Vulcan had fully expected her visit to be trying in the extreme, however well she had gotten along with the Tuckers during their short time on _Enterprise_. She had expected to be overwhelmed and exhausted by having to deal with their emotions. Instead, her visit had been more peaceful than if she had been on a retreat at a Vulcan monastery.  
  
As she contemplated her situation, T'Pol meandered along the blackberry bramble, wondering where the other were. She was concerned that Charles might overexert himself. According to Mrs. Tucker, this was his first outing of any length since his return to Earth.  
  
She strolled past the rows, looking down each for a sign of her companions. Mr. Tucker waved to her from the far end of one. T'Pol acknowledged his greeting, but moved on.  
  
Finally she spotted Charles, sitting in the middle of a row near the end of the blackberry patch. She moved briskly toward him, worried. Her eyes quickly took in the details as she neared his recumbent form. Yes, the berry-picking had most certainly been too much for him. His basket had hardly any berries in it, and he was drooping in the heat. Even more alarming, there was some sort of strange discoloration around his mouth!  
  
Trip turned when he heard her coming and gifted her with a beatific smile. T'Pol paused, uncertain. He certainly did not seem exhausted. But the bluish tinge around his lips was very disturbing.  
  
she called. Have you overtired yourself? I will take you back to the transport.  
  
He looked surprised at her obvious concern. No, T'Pol, I was just enjoying the day. And the berries.  
  
The Vulcan blinked, puzzled for a moment. Then her brain reassessed the evidence before her. It was not exhaustion that left his basket devoid of berries. The discoloration around his mouth had an external source.  
  
You have been eating the berries! she accused him severely. He looked disconcerted by her reaction.  
  
Well, yeah, T'Pol, that's why we're out here!  
  
I understood that our objective was to harvest the berries so that your mother could...put up...preserves and other such items, the Vulcan stated, eyeing him in confusion.  
  
Now it was Trip's turn to blink. We've got all day, T'Pol. Mom'll get her berries. He cocked his head at her, puzzled. Part of the fun is eating em straight off the vine, he continued, giving her a purple-toothed grin to emphasize his point.  
  
T'Pol looked down at the full basket of which she had been so proud mere moments before. It certainly did not look Charles followed her gaze and a disappointed look stole over his face.  
  
You didn't eat a single berry, did you? he said, a note of pity creeping into his voice.  
  
You said that we were going berry-picking, she responded defensively, appalled to hear petulance in her own voice. Not berry-_eating_.  
  
His bewildered expression was almost comical. But that's what you do when you go berry-picking! he protested. You eat twice as much as you put in your basket!  
  
T'Pol kept her gaze on her full basket, which now seemed completely unsatisfactory. I was not aware of this custom, she said slowly, disheartened that she had apparently misinterpreted the purpose of their outing. It had seemed that she was adapting to their culture so well!  
  
I'm sorry, T'Pol, the human apologized. I shoulda realized that you wouldn't know the ins and outs of berry-picking tradition. He appeared truly upset at his failure to impart the critical details. She moved the final few steps separating them and sat down gracefully at his side.  
  
Perhaps you can explain them to me, she reasoned, settling the basket in her lap. What, exactly, are the particulars that must be observed to fully appreciate this custom?  
  
The purple grin reappeared. Well, with berry-picking, the main thing is to have fun.  
  
Not to pick berries? T'Pol attempted to clarify.  
  
To have fun while picking berries, he amended. I mean, if you just wanted berries, you could get em at the store!  
  
And how is fun accomplished while berry-picking? she queried, glancing down at the scratches on her arms.  
  
There are a bunch of variables that affect the fun factor, he explained, matching her tone in the spirit of scientific inquiry.  
  
Such as?  
  
First, you have to do it with people you love.  
  
Family members, for example, she offered, nodding in the direction of his father.  
  
And other loved ones, he added, giving her a shy glance. She nodded acquiescence. They sat in contented silence for a moment.  
  
You said there were many variables, she prodded him.  
  
He pondered a moment. It helps if it's a gorgeous day. Their eyes rose as one to the cloudless blue sky. T'Pol had to admit that the weather was ideal for an outdoor excursion. The day was pleasantly warm, not stiflingly hot.  
  
Charles continued with enthusiasm, you absolutely haveta eat the berries straight off the vine!  
  
T'Pol lifted an eyebrow. You are implying that berries eaten straight from the vine would be superior to these, she held up her basket, despite the fact that they were picked less than an hour ago?  
  
His confidence never wavered. When she continued to regard him doubtfully, he gestured to her basket. Try one of those, T'Pol, and we'll see.  
  
The Vulcan obligingly selected a plump berry and put it in her mouth. It was wonderfully tart, and yet sweet at the same time. She raised her eyes to his. It is quite tasteful, she acknowledged.  
  
He grinned, leaning over to pluck a berry from the bramble. Okay, now try _this_ one! T'Pol took the fruit from his hand and put it in her mouth. It too was delicious, but not in such a way as to make it superior to the first berry. The Vulcan turned her raised eyebrow back to her companion, slightly amused to see his face fall.  
  
Oh, c'mon, T'Pol! Charles protested. You can't tell me those berries tasted the same! When her skeptical glance told him that she could, and did, he refused to admit defeat.  
  
Try it again, he grumbled, pointing at her basket brusquely, before turning to pluck another berry from the bramble. Deciding to humor him, T'Pol calmly selected and consumed another berry from her basket. Once again, her senses delighted in the tang of the fruit as it slid happily down her throat.  
  
Charles did not seem as happy as the berries. He wore a scowl that suggested he was contemplating shoving the specimen he currently held down her throat. He held it out to her, scowling.  
  
An unprecedented sense of mischief prompted T'Pol's next action. Rather than taking it with her hand, she leaned over and delicately grasped it with her mouth, allowing her tongue to suggestively swipe his fingers as she did so.  
  
His surliness dissolved instantly.  
  
T'Pol chewed and swallowed slowly, never taking her eyes from his. While this berry has certain...qualities that the others lacked, I still can discern no marked difference between those from my basket and those directly from the vine, she reported.  
  
When he continued to stare openmouthed, she went on. Perhaps you should try one of these? She took a berry from the basket in her lap and held it out to him. They may not be as inferior as you believe.  
  
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He leaned over and secured the berry gently with his teeth, hesitating just long enough to allow her to trace his bottom lip with her index finger. He cast a thoughtful look up at the sky while swallowing the fruit.  
  
You may have a point there, T'Pol, he conceded.  
  
The Vulcan could be gracious in victory. I suspect that it is not the time lapse from vine to basket, but the manner in which the fruit is presented that is the deciding factor, she theorized.  
  
Charles raised an amused eyebrow at her. We should test that hypothesis.  
  
T'Pol was already reaching into her basket for another berry. She set the basket out of the way decisively once she had made her selection.  
  
As she placed it in his mouth, he brought his own hand up behind hers, entwining his fingers with her own. He pressed his lips gently into her open palm and then traced from her palm to the inside of her wrist with his tongue.  
  
T'Pol grasped his face between her hands in order to bring his lips to her own. He had not shaved that morning, and the stubble scraped her tender skin, but she did not mind. On the contrary, the friction was exceedingly... pleasant. She gently raked his bottom lip with her teeth, wishing to share the sensation. A soft groan told her that her efforts were appreciated.  
  
Charles' hands were now gliding past her ears—she shivered at the brief caress—and into her hair. He twined his fingers through her short locks, angling her head so as to better facilitate their connection. She attempted to emulate his technique, but his hair was still too short to allow a firm grip. She dropped her hands to his chest instead, pausing momentarily to feel his heart beat beneath her palms. Then she embraced him with fervor, bringing their bodies together with a force that drove an from lips still attached to her own.  
  
For a brief moment, she remembered that he was still recuperating from serious injuries. Perhaps she should suggest that they refrain from such intense cardiovascular activity? But then he began nibbling his way down her throat, and all logical thought fled her mind. She reclined on the soft earth and pulled him down with her.  
  
T'Pol was too intensely focused on navigating the logistics of their coupling—there was a decided lack of coordination in the placement of arms and legs—to notice anything else. Otherwise, she might have heard the footsteps approaching. As it was, neither she nor Charles were aware of anything but each other until a hearty voice interrupted their endeavors.  
  
Hey, you two kids—Hell's bells!  
  
Oh my—!  
  
Come along, mother!  
  
For all his comments about sparking, Mr. Tucker was not prepared for the sight that greeted him. He rallied, however, dragging his equally startled wife away from the scene with alacrity. As she and Charles broke apart with an audible T'Pol caught a brief glimpse of two pairs of feet hastening away.  
  
She raised herself to one elbow staring after her companion's retreating parents for a moment, then looking down at Charles, uncertainty furrowing her brow. Her friend seemed caught between mortification and hilarity. Before she could inquire about proper human etiquette in such a situation, a tentative voice drifted across the blackberry patch from several rows away.  
  
T'Pol had never heard Mrs. Tucker sound so unsure of herself. Um, you know that Dr. Phlox didn't want you to...to engage in anything too...um...strenuous for at least six weeks!  
  
Before either she or Charles could react, both caught Mr. Tucker's hissed comment to his wife, Hush, woman! Don't be such a killjoy!  
  
At this, Charles clapped both hands over his mouth and turned a vivid shade of red. T'Pol was alarmed until she noticed that his eyes were bulging with mirth. His shoulders began to shake, and tears of laughter ran down his temples into his hair.  
  
The Vulcan did not understand what he found so humorous in his mother's comments. Mrs. Tucker certainly had a valid point. Given the state of his health, T'Pol's attempt to entice him into a sexual liaison had been extremely irresponsible. She raised an eyebrow at her companion.  
  
Your mother is quite correct, she chided him, when he failed to see the seriousness of the situation. You are certainly not physically capable of sexual relations at this time.  
  
Aw, c'mon, T'Pol, he protested, stifling his mirth with difficulty. I was doin' just fine until we were interrupted. He cocked his eyebrows at her and gave a pleading smile. T'Pol wanted to believe him, but a brief visual inspection revealed a touch of pallor beneath his fading blush.  
  
If you will recall, T'Pol reminded him, our previous...interlude was extremely taxing for you. And you were in perfect health at that time. A look of indignation replaced the amusement on his face. He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. There is the distinct possibility that premature participation in...strenuous activity could result in cardiac arrest.  
  
Trip scowled, skewering her with a disgruntled look. Death by sex? You've gotta be kidding me, T'Pol!  
  
While I admit that it is unlikely, there is a slight possibility, she responded primly.  
  
He grimaced, but only for a moment. It's worth the risk! he declared, a raffish grin creeping over his face. And if I don't make it, damn! Helluva way to go! He raised his eyebrows at her and opened his arms invitingly, giving her a mischievous, hopeful look.  
  
T'Pol narrowed her eyes at him. Your demise would leave me in an extremely awkward position, she commented wryly. There would be many questions to answer.  
  
He deflated somewhat, contemplating the imaginary scenario. Yeah, there'd be a lot of paperwork. And it'd probably put a serious damper on human-Vulcan relations.  
  
She nodded, relieved that he had decided to be rational. It could also inhibit any members of our species who might be considering the path we have chosen, she added softly, raising her eyes to his.  
  
Her companion met her gaze with a wistful smile. The sacrifices we make for posterity, he sighed theatrically.  
  
T'Pol allowed the corners of her mouth to turn up ever-so-slightly as she inclined her head toward him.   
  
They sat silently for several moments, enjoying the simple—and non-lethal—pleasure of holding hands. Then T'Pol picked up his near-empty basket.  
  
I should continue to procure berries, she decided. You have not met your quota, she added, giving him a pointed look.  
  
I'll sit here and guard your basket, he announced grandly. Leave the berry-picking to a real go-getter. When he noticed her stony glare, he asked defensively,   
  
From whom will you be guarding the berries? she inquired skeptically.  
  
Charles waved at the skies expansively. Oh, there are loads of birds around that would try to take he explained. I've personally seen some really vicious crows go kamikaze on people. Gotta protect our harvest, T'Pol. He returned her gaze, wide-eyed, the picture of innocence.  
  
T'Pol noticed that the tinge of pallor in his face was more pronounced now that his blush had receded, and she realized that he was inventing an excuse to rest. She should have known that he gave in to her earlier arguments far too easily. Still, it would not do to reveal that she was aware of his motives. His stubborn pride might goad him to insist on accompanying her.  
  
Who will guard the berries from you? she asked dubiously.  
  
He put his hand over his heart, as if offended by her suspicions. T'Pol, they aren't straight from the vine, so without the proper...um...presentation, your berries are safe from me. He threw in a leer, as if to convince her that any designs he had were not on the berries.  
  
She sighed, rising to her feet. Very well, she acquiesced. But will you also guard' my outerwear? It has become quite warm. T'Pol removed her sweater and draped it over his shoulders. He pulled it around himself, batted his lashes at her, and eyed her expectantly.  
  
When she raised an eyebrow in inquiry, he asked, You're not gonna take off any more?  
  
She gave him a long-suffering look designed to impart just how much he was trying her patience. Hardly. It would be extremely inappropriate. She ignored his exaggerated look of disappointment, gathered the empty basket, and strode away, careful not to look back.  
  
T'Pol paused here and there to pick berries, but the row had already been thoroughly gleaned. When she reached the end, she finally turned to look back. Her companion lay on his side, wrapped in her sweater and curled up around her basket like a juvenile Earth feline. The steady rise and fall of his ribcage told her that he had already fallen asleep.  
  
_No,_ she thought. _He certainly is not recovered enough for...strenuous activity._  
  
To her surprise, she found that the realization left her thoroughly disappointed. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Court and Spark  
by Ragua  
**

Disclaimers in Chapter 1.  
  
**Chapter 3  
**  
Sunlight filtered through the trees as T'Pol and her human companion strolled in the grove surrounding the house. Their destination today was the lake. It was a longer walk than their usual constitutionals, but Mrs. Tucker opined that her son would most likely be sleeping late this morning. T'Pol silently agreed with the human woman's assessment. Her _t'hai'la_ had nearly fallen asleep over dinner the night before—extremely uncharacteristic behavior, given his normal appetite.  
  
T'Pol walked more than 20 meters before realizing she had used a Vulcan term of endearment. Her brain had conjured the word automatically, and it seemed so natural that she had nearly missed it. The young Vulcan pondered her subconscious mind's choice of words. _T'hai'la_ indicated great affection. It was used only for one's most intimate friends.  
  
Or lovers.  
  
Her pulse quickened slightly, and a pleasant flush warmed her body as she brought to mind their interlude the day before. Brief, to be sure, but quite stimulating nonetheless. T'Pol found herself looking forward to the day when Charles had recuperated enough to take up his duties as her mate.  
  
Once again, the young Vulcan was brought up short by both the trend of her thoughts and the words her mind chose to express them. She recalled their one night together. Satisfying enough, but altogether too hurried for her liking. Anticipation led her to imagine an interlude during which they could take as much time as necessary. A sufficiently lengthy encounter, if T'Pol had any say in the matter. And she most certainly intended to have a say.  
  
The young Vulcan's reverie was interrupted by her companion.  
  
T'Pol, honey, Mrs. Tucker began, I've been meaning to apologize for sticking my nose into your business yesterday.  
  
Although T'Pol's knowledge of human colloquialisms was extensive, the other woman's comment confused her. She schooled her expression, hoping the human would continue. Luckily, she was not disappointed.  
  
You two are adults, Charles' mother acknowledged. You can do whatever you want. I had no business suggesting otherwise. She paused a moment, shaking her head and grinning wryly. It's just hard to remember things like that when you're dealing with your own children!  
  
Now T'Pol understood. For a brief instant, she wondered if Charles' mother was telepathic, then dismissed the notion as illogical.  
  
Mrs. Tucker, please do not reproach yourself, the Vulcan responded. You were entirely correct to remind us that Charles' condition was less than optimal for our...activity. My behavior was quite irresponsible.  
  
To her surprise, Mrs. Tucker laughed merrily.  
  
Irresponsible?! Sweetie, you two are young and in love. It's completely natural for you to want to...um...enjoy each other's company!  
  
T'Pol's brow furrowed, while Mrs. Tucker continued to chuckle softly. She appreciated the human woman's attempt to excuse her behavior, but the fact remained that she had allowed her emotions to overcome logic, and Charles might have come to harm as a result.  
  
Wishing to explain her position, yet not offend her companion, T'Pol chose her next words carefully. However natural' our behavior, she began slowly, it could have had a detrimental effect on Charles' health. Our actions were...ill-advised.  
  
Mrs. Tucker pulled one side of her mouth into an expression of controlled amusement. Honey, you're only— But she stopped abruptly, shooting T'Pol a startled and guilty look. When the Vulcan raised an inquiring eyebrow, the older woman grimaced, but explained with resolute honesty, I was about to say, You're only human.' But of course that's not so. She scowled, ashamed of her social blunder. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you like that.  
  
T'Pol acknowledged that many Vulcans—most perhaps—would take offense from the human's innocent _faux pas_. But T'Pol was touched, recognizing the slip for what it was. I do not consider your mistake an insult, she consoled. Your comment indicates that you do not consider me— T'Pol searched for the correct word. —an outsider.  
  
Her companion smiled gratefully. Well, of course you're not an outsider, T'Pol, she assured with gentle exasperation. You're family!  
  
The Vulcan felt a completely illogical glow of satisfaction. She nearly smiled at the sense of belonging, but managed to curb her reaction. I am honored, she replied formally. Then, sensing that more was needed, she went on. It is quite...agreeable...to be considered part of your family. She paused a moment. I am, however, Vulcan. As such, I should not have allowed my feelings to overcome common sense. I will refrain from such behavior until Charles can reciprocate without endangering his health.  
  
T'Pol cast a sideways glance to see how her words would be received. To her surprise, Mrs. Tucker's face bore a strong resemblance to that of her son they day before, when he had been attempting to control his laughter. She raised an eyebrow at the human.  
  
Noticing T'Pol's regard, Mrs. Tucker reined in her expression as skillfully as any Vulcan. That's probably wise, honey, she agreed. Then her eyes twinkled irrepressibly. Not much fun. But wise.  
  
For the second time that day, T'Pol silently agreed the human's assessment.

* * *

In the light of the late morning sun, the lake was as beautiful as Mrs. Tucker had promised. T'Pol, like most Vulcans no fan of water, found the glasslike quality of the still lake mesmerizing. Then a slight breeze stirred the surface, and the ripples generated a pattern that encouraged the viewer to seek its source. T'Pol did so for several moments, with no luck.  
  
Her human companion seemed equally taken with the vista, but for other reasons, which became apparent when she spoke.  
  
We spent so many summers here, she murmured, smiling wistfully at the memory. She raised her eyes to one of the large trees at the edge of the water. The kids always tied a rope to that tree and took turns swinging out into the water. She shook her head in nostalgic wonder. You'd think that havin' the whole Atlantic Ocean as a playground the other nine months of the year would have made em look down on this place. Her eyes sought T'Pol's. But they loved it here. We all did. She turned her attention pensively back to the water.  
  
The Vulcan wasn't entirely sure, but she thought that the look in her companion's eyes had not been one of happiness. T'Pol was puzzled for a moment. Mrs. Tucker's words suggested that the memories were pleasant ones, yet the Vulcan was increasingly certain that she had caught a glimpse of a different emotion. She replayed the human's words in her head, and a glimmer of understanding took shape.  
  
All her children had loved this place. But all her children were no longer capable of visiting it or sharing the memories.  
  
T'Pol shifted on her feet, unsure how to acknowledge or alleviate her companion's pain. Her inexperience with emotions might lead her to compound the problem. It would be safer to say nothing, but it would also be cowardly. And insensitive, at least from a human perspective.  
  
Mrs. Tucker, T'Pol began hesitantly. When the older woman turned to look at her, the Vulcan went on. I have long intended to offer you my condolences for the loss of your daughter, Elizabeth. The human flinched slightly, unprepared for the blunt statement. T'Pol took a deep breath and continued. Her death greatly affected Charles. Even as a Vulcan, I can imagine how much worse it must have been for her parents.  
  
Mrs. Tucker's eyes glistened. T'Pol met her gaze for a moment and then, tentatively, reached out to touch the older woman gently on the shoulder. The human blinked, gave T'Pol a watery smile, and then returned her attention to the lake.  
  
The Vulcan removed her hand slowly and turned her gaze to the water, as well. The women stood in silence for several moments. Finally, Mrs. Tucker spoke.  
  
Thank you.  
  
T'Pol thought that her companion's words indicated an end to the emotional encounter, but after a moment, Mrs. Tucker continued.  
  
Lizzie loved it here even more than the other kids, if that were possible, she reminisced. Without their friends around, they weren't so het up on being cool,' so they had no reason to leave her out of anything. She smiled at the memory. It was just the four of em, and you'd think having no outside influences would have kept em out of trouble, but I swear, those hellions wreaked more havoc during summer vacation than they did the whole rest of the year combined! The mother of said hellions shook her head in both censure and admiration.  
  
The chance to learn more about human child-rearing piqued T'Pol's interest. I would enjoy learning about the ways in which they wreaked havoc, she stated. When Mrs. Tucker cast a startled look in her direction, the Vulcan backed off. Unless, of course, it is inappropriate.  
  
To her surprise, Mrs. Tucker laughed. No, not at all, honey! It's just... Her voice trailed off. Since Lizzie died, no one wants to talk about her anymore. She frowned. It's bad enough she's gone. But now it's like they want to pretend she never existed! Her frown turned to a scowl—a vivid expression of her frustration and anger.  
  
T'Pol recalled how Charles had kept up exactly such a pretense for most of _Enterprise's_ mission in the Expanse. It had helped him to avoid the pain of his loss, but his eventual acceptance of her death and his grief over it, although heart-wrenching, had been far more healthy. Perhaps the avoidance that she had witnessed on _Enterprise_ was far more complex than she first believed.  
  
It was very...difficult...for Charles to speak of his sister during our mission, the Vulcan offered. Mrs. Tucker looked up at her and nodded, seeming to regret her angry words.  
  
Charlie and Danny are the same, the human acknowledged. Maybe that's just how men deal with it. Jeannie and I speak about her every now and then, but she's got so much going on with her own kids... Mrs. Tucker trailed off again, despondent.  
  
T'Pol stepped forward. I would very much enjoy hearing about your daughter, she assured. Mrs. Tucker looked up at her again, tears forming in her eyes, despite the smile that lit her face. She took the Vulcan's hand and gently squeezed it.  
  
I'd love to tell you all about Lizzie, she whispered.  
  
T'Pol squeezed her companion's hand in return and nodded, allowing her own lips to turn up slightly at the corners.

* * *

A short hour later, T'Pol and Mrs. Tucker were in the family room, sitting knee to knee in overstuffed chairs, a photo album between them. The human was explaining each photo, much to T'Pol's relief, as the images made little sense to her. When her companion had accused her own children of wreaking havoc, the Vulcan had assumed that it was the usual hyperbole humans often employed. The visual record, however, seemed to suggest otherwise. As far as T'Pol could tell, none of the four Tucker children had ever been stationary at the same time, and most of their movement seemed calculated to ensure the maximum possible destruction.  
  
Mrs. Tucker identified the current page as the pictures which chronicled her youngest daughter losing her first tooth. To T'Pol, however, the images indicated nothing but chaos. In one, an older girl—presumably Jean, the eldest Tucker child—was affixing a string to the knob of a door. Another showed two boys—a blond and a redhead—both attempting to stick their hands into the mouth of a tiny towheaded girl. Mrs. Tucker explained that the boys were attempting to tie the other end of the string to Lizzie's loose tooth.  
  
The next several pictures were mostly blurry, but they conveyed a definite sense of teamwork, action, pain, and high spirits. The final images of the sequence showed the redheaded boy holding something on a string out of reach of the tiny girl. Though a small trickle of blood colored her lower lip, the miniscule child was gamely leaping for whatever her older brother was holding out of her reach—T'Pol assumed it was the just-pulled tooth. The two oldest children stood in the background, both with hands on hips and mouths open. The girl—Jean—wore a scolding expression, while the boy—Trip—was looking on in mischievous expectation.  
  
The final picture explained her _t'hai'la's_ expression. The little girl, obviously frustrated at her inability to reach the tooth, was tackling the redheaded boy. The oldest girl's mouth had dropped in shock, but the blond boy's head was thrown back in laughter. He had obviously known that his littlest sister would not put up with their brother's behavior for long and was heartily enjoying her response.  
  
A glance at Mrs. Tucker revealed a grin similar to one T'Pol often saw on another face. Lizzie sure didn't put up with any guff from the boys, she chortled. Not that Trip gave her much grief. Those two were like peanut butter and jelly.  
  
Before the Vulcan could ask for an explanation of the food analogy, Charles appeared in the doorway of the living room. For a moment, it seemed to T'Pol that the tousle-headed blond child from the photo album had stepped off one of the pages. Her _t'hai'la's_ hair stuck out in numerous directions, all of them in defiance of gravity. His face was creased with dents from a hard sleep on an uneven pillow, and his befuddled, droopy-eyed gaze bore more than a passing resemblance to the face in one of the earlier images chronicling an early morning family fishing trip.  
  
He stood in the doorway for several moments, blinking like a slowly-waking child. Finally, after stifling a yawn, he managed a greeting of sorts.  
  
he mumbled, hobbling towards them. Whatcha doin'?I wished to learn more about your sister, Elizabeth, T'Pol explained. To that end, your mother has been showing me images from your childhood.  
  
All vestiges of sleepiness vanished instantly. His face jerked to awareness, and he shot a worried look at his mother. Mrs. Tucker, having returned her attention to the photo album after a cheery greeting, was oblivious to his concern. T'Pol, on the other hand, registered his apprehension and the fact that it altered his actions.  
  
She had no doubt his original destination had been her side. Now—in a moment so brief it might have gone unnoticed had she not been so keenly focused on him—he changed his course so that his shambling gait took him past her chair to his mother's. When Mrs. Tucker looked up at him with a tender smile, he returned it, settling gently on the arm of her chair. As he leaned over to look at the album, he placed his arm around her shoulders.  
  
The gesture was so natural that it went unmentioned, yet T'Pol was touched by the depth of the feelings it revealed. Once again, the Vulcan was struck to her core by the compassion and sensitivity of humans in general, and of her own chosen human in particular. How could her people not recognize the value inherent in a species capable of such empathy? Not for the first time, T'Pol wondered if she were lacking some vital component that other Vulcans had in abundance. She shook her head slightly, attempting to refocus her attention.  
  
We just finished looking at the pictures of you kids yanking Lizzie's first loose tooth, Mrs. Tucker was informing her son.  
  
That means the Great Tooth Fairy Ambush must be next, he exclaimed in delight.  
  
Mrs. Tucker blanched. Oh good Lord! I'd forgot all about that! she gasped. Well, T'Pol won't want to see something like that, she concluded abruptly, attempting to turn several pages of the album at once.  
  
Trip stuck his hand between the pages, effectively preventing the bowdlerization of Tucker family history. Are you kiddin', Mom? he cried, an impish grin lighting his features. T'Pol would _love_ to see that! It'd probably confirm all her worst fears about humans and their families!  
  
T'Pol leaned forward, curious. I would be most interested in learning of this event, she assured Mrs. Tucker. It sounds somewhat...violent.  
  
Charles threw back his head, laughing. Once again, T'Pol was struck by how little he had changed from the child in the pictures. You can say that again, T'Pol! he assured her. He then launched into a long-winded explanation of an aspect of human folklore involving an imaginary sprite known as the Tooth Fairy. Apparently, when human children lost their baby teeth, it was customary to place the items beneath a pillow upon retiring for the night. While the child slept, the Tooth Fairy—in actuality the child's parents—would take the tooth and leave a coin in exchange.  
  
Mrs. Tucker listened to her son's lecture with a mixture of resignation and embarrassment. When he finally stopped for a breath, she jumped in. The older kids told Lizzie that since she was so little, she'd be last on the Tooth Fairy's agenda that night. Mrs. Tucker paused to glare at her son. They convinced the poor thing that there probably wouldn't be any money left to pay for her tooth. I swear, she was beside herself. Nothing her father and I said could make her feel better. Once again she glowered at her son, who attempted to take up the story despite his bouts of laughter.  
  
So Lizzie was determined to get something out of the Tooth Fairy, even if it wasn't money. She figured that, just because she was little didn't mean it was fair that she get shorted, Trip explained between chuckles.  
  
She had a real strong sense of what was right, Mrs. Tucker affirmed.  
  
Lizzie decided that she could probably take the Tooth Fairy in a fight, so she made a big convoluted plan to hijack all the other kids' teeth and hold em for ransom, her son went on. I guess she thought that's the only way she'd get anything out of the ol' Tooth Fairy.  
  
Mrs. Tucker obviously thought that her son was enjoying the tale far too much. She took over for him. To make a long story short, when her father and I went in to her room to make the exchange, she pounced on us like some kind of demon from Hell. The older woman snorted at the memory. Neither of us was expecting that, of course, so all three of us ended up makin' a lot of noise. Pretty soon, we'd waked the whole house.  
  
Trip could scarcely breath from laughing, but he seemed determined to add his own color to the tale. You...you shoulda seen— He stopped to point at his mother while he caught his breath. Mom, your hair was standing out all over...You looked like...like... He was unable to continue, so instead he pointed to the album. T'Pol, both appalled and intrigued by the macabre tale, leaned over to look.  
  
The images that greeted her were certainly disconcerting. One showed a woman—obviously Mrs. Tucker at a much younger age—attempting to forcefully detach a tiny, blond waif from her head. The next several in the series were once again blurry and suggestive of anarchy. The final few showed the four Tucker children in various stages of emotional breakdown. Charles and his brother were both overcome with hysterical laughter: the pictures showed the boys on the ground, mouths open, holding their sides. Jean appeared horrorstruck, her face aghast, hands covering her mouth. Tiny Lizzie stood pugnaciously, clumps of hair in each fist, facing an equally irate Mrs. Tucker, from whose head the hair had obviously come. T'Pol surmised that Mr. Tucker had been ensconced safely behind the camera.  
  
Mrs. Tucker was shaking her head at the pictures ruefully. Lizzie certainly was a scrapper, she allowed. Then she turned to glare at her son yet again. You damn kids ruined the Tooth Fairy for her!Hey, we never told her to go ninja on you, Mom, Trip said, showing not a bit of remorse. She did that all on her own! He was obviously impressed by his little sister's gumption.  
  
his mother snorted. She rose from her chair. I'm going to need some tea if I'm going to have to put up with your sass while T'Pol and I look at the rest of these pictures! She turned to her Vulcan guest, her miffed expression morphing to one of polite inquiry. Chamomile or mint for you, honey?I would prefer chamomile, thank you, Mrs. Tucker, T'Pol responded.  
  
Casting one last baleful glare at her son, Mrs. Tucker stomped off to the kitchen. T'Pol peered after her cautiously.  
  
I believe you have angered your mother, she stated with some concern.  
  
Oh, she'll be fine, T'Pol, Charles assured her. She talks loud, but she loves it when we tell that ol' story. He glanced down at the photo album with a wry grin. Looking at these pictures is good for her. It was good of you to ask about He raised his gaze to hers, his eyes glistening with emotion.  
  
T'Pol inclined her head modestly. She refrained from commenting that reviewing the pictures appeared to have been good for him, as well. I merely expressed a wish to learn more about your sister. Your mother suggested the photo albums as a likely source of information. She met his gaze again. I often wondered at your obsession for photography, she admitted. Now I feel that I understand somewhat, _t'hai'la_. She let the edges of her lips lift slightly.  
  
Charles returned her smile. Then he cocked his head at her, clearly curious about the Vulcan word. Before he could ask, his mother returned.  
  
Look what I happened on while I was making the tea! Mrs. Tucker held up her find, clearly delighted.  
  
Charles gasped, causing T'Pol to turn to him in concern. He was gazing at the book his mother held with a look of utter horror on his face. Mom, no! he begged.  
  
The human woman turned a downright evil grin on her son. Oh, honey, you know T'Pol would want to see your baby book!  
  
As Mrs. Tucker flipped to the first page, revealing the image of a fat, naked, blond infant, her son sank his head into his hands and groaned. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Court and Spark  
by Ragua  
**

Disclaimers in Chapter 1.  
  
**Chapter 4  
**  
Distant shrill cries brought T'Pol slowly out of her meditative state. She breathed deeply, becoming aware of her surroundings once again. Vaguely she gazed about her. From the position of the sun, she surmised that she had been meditating for approximately an hour—much longer than she had expected. While extremely peaceful, the locale was not exactly conducive to the focus required for proper meditation. Chirping birds, thrumming insects, long-eared rodents hopping across the grass: all had conspired to distract her, with a surprising lack of success. Even the snoring of her companion had not been sufficient to disrupt her meditation.  
  
The Vulcan glanced at the human asleep on the blanket next to her. Charles had suggested they take advantage of the fine weather and combine his nap and her meditation. At first, T'Pol had been skeptical of both his logic and his motives, but in retrospect, it appeared to be a beneficial combination. Far from distracting her, his presence had soothed her, enabling her to focus far better than she had in a long while. Lacking a candle, she had concentrated instead on the rhythm of his breathing and had quickly entered the familiar fugue state.  
  
Her brow furrowed as she pondered the situation. It appeared that his mere presence had a calming effect on her. However illogical it seemed, the evidence could not be denied. She contemplated his sleeping form, admitting that it certainly was agreeable to look at. His snores, which should have been irritating, sounded almost melodious. His scent, which at one time had appalled her, now brought comfort and contentment.  
  
As if aware of her regard, her companion lifted his head from the blanket, blinking dazedly. After gathering his bearings, he raised up on his elbows and turned a cherubic smile in her direction. T'Pol fought the urge to corral his wayward hair.  
  
Are you rested? she inquired instead.  
  
A yawn and a nod were the only response. For a moment it appeared as though he would lay back down and continue sleeping, but then the noises that had caught her attention earlier sounded again. This time, Charles heard them as well. He raised himself up onto his knees, eyes searching.  
  
The sounds appear to be coming from the front of the house, T'Pol offered. Is there cause for worry?  
  
He turned back to her with a wry and somewhat weary grin. Depends on how ya look at it, _t'hai'la_, he replied, his voice caressing the newly-learned Vulcan word. It's like a military invasion. Or maybe a plague of locusts. But in a good way.  
  
His figurative language provided T'Pol with the information she needed. I fail to understand why you insist on referring to your sister's children in such negative terms, she commented. It was yet another facet of human behavior that puzzled her. His words indicated that the children were to be feared. Yet his manner simultaneously demonstrated warm feelings for the as-yet-unseen nieces and nephew.  
  
Before Charles could explain the dichotomy to her, two small humans rounded the corner of the house at breakneck speed, shrilling joyously as they bore down on T'Pol and her companion. Trip staggered to his feet, arms open. T'Pol, remembering the outcome of his greeting her in just such a manner, leapt up to offer support or protection.  
  
It appeared that he might need both.  
  
The smallest child was the first on the scene. She launched herself into her uncle, catching him at the midriff and forcing an from her target. Charles might have stayed on his feet had he not been faced with a second assault. The next child to arrive gained a higher altitude and threw her arms around his neck. The three quickly toppled over into the grass.  
  
T'Pol looked on in concern, shifting uncomfortably. Should she attempt to detach the children? They obviously did not intend harm, yet their actions might further injure her mate! Before the Vulcan could decide upon a course of action, an extremely loud voice rang across the back yard.  
  
What did I tell you bout tacklin' your uncle that way?!? He's been sick!  
  
The Vulcan whirled around to see a red-faced woman storming down upon the melee. From the striking resemblance to the pictures of the young Mrs. Tucker, T'Pol deduced that this must be her daughter, Jean.  
  
The children retreated enough to allow their uncle to sit up shakily. The elder girl blanched with horrified regret. It's...it's okay, Jeannie, Trip gasped. He patted his nieces soothingly to assure them that he was not at all upset by the ebullient greeting.  
  
The breathless response and the pallor on his face accomplished more than their mother's scolding. Both girls stared at their uncle, taking in for the first time the cropped hair, thinness, and barely visible scars. Until that moment, their mother's warnings had only been words to them. Now it was reality.  
  
Reality was too much for the youngest child. She began to wail, begging Uncle Trip not to die, and creating an entirely new crisis.  
  
Hey! Hey, Frankie, hon, it's okay, Charles consoled his distraught niece. I'm not gonna die! Everything's gonna be fine! When words didn't work, he looped a long arm around her and drew her into a fierce hug. The little girl buried her face in his chest, weeping copiously.  
  
This was too much for the older girl who made a face. Don't be such a baby, Frankie! Eyeing the child, T'Pol suspected that her disgust masked a jealousy that her younger sister had their uncle's full attention.  
  
Charles must have come to the same conclusion, as he quickly scooped the older girl into the hug with his other arm. T'Pol breathed a sigh of relief that the violently emotional reunion now seemed to have been accomplished with a minimum of damage done to her _t'hai'la_. She glanced over at the children's mother, who was watching the scene with benign caution. When the human woman noticed her regard, she turned her attention to T'Pol.  
  
I'm sorry! I'm Jean Monaghan, Trip's sister, she introduced herself. You must be T'Pol!  
  
T'Pol confirmed the identification with a slight inclination of her head. It is very agreeable to meet you, Mrs. Monaghan, she replied.  
  
Charles' sister blinked in surprise at the appellation, and then began to laugh. Mrs. Monaghan? I can't remember the last time someone called me that! It's Jean, please!  
  
T'Pol nodded again, then noticed Charles making an effort to get to his feet. The girls were attempting to assist him, without much success. T'Pol stepped forward and righted him easily. He grinned his thanks and put a hand on her shoulder to steady himself.  
  
And these two lovely ladies are Jeannie's girls, he proclaimed grandly, flourishing a hand at the children. Bernice Lee Monaghan and Frances Mulligan Monaghan. Ladies, this is my good friend, T'Pol.  
  
Before T'Pol could offer her own greeting, the littlest girl gifted her with a smile that was missing several teeth. I like your ears! she declared forthrightly.  
  
T'Pol, long a veteran of the human fascination with Vulcan ears, replied politely, Thank you, Frances. Your own ears are quite attractive as well, earning her a huge grin of appreciation from the gap-toothed waif. It also earned her a gentle squeeze from her mate, which she acknowledged with a sidelong glance and a coyly raised eyebrow.  
  
The older girl seemed less taken with the Vulcan. She merely nodded coolly in acknowledgment of the introduction. It is pleasant to meet you, Bernice, T'Pol offered.  
  
the girl corrected abruptly.  
  
Jean Monaghan took exception to her daughter's uncivil response. Don't be rude, missy! she snapped warningly.  
  
Forgive me, T'Pol sought to diffuse the situation. I am unaccustomed to human nicknames, she explained.  
  
Bernie eyed her mother warily before offering the Vulcan a sullen, Where's Davy? Trip asked, in an attempt to deflect his sister's ire from her errant daughter. Jean favored the surly child with one last glower before turning her attention to her brother.  
  
He's inside with Ger and the she replied. They carried our stuff in. And it's _David_, now, she corrected with mock severity. He's discovered coolness all of a sudden, and there's no living with him!Uh oh, Trip grinned. First the coolness, then the chicks. You've entered the long, dark Night of the Teenager, Jeannie! Jean snorted as the small group began to make its way toward the house. I'll dark' him if he thinks I'm going to put up with that attitude for six more years!  
  
Listening to the human siblings' discussion led T'Pol to conclude that the trials of adolescence appeared to be universal.

* * *

The two members of the Monaghan family T'Pol had not yet met—Jean's husband and son—could not have been more different from each other. Gerald Monaghan's face bore definite testimony to the fact that humans and the other Earth primates shared an ancestor, the only differences being a smattering of freckles and slightly slanted green eyes that glinted with amiable good-humor.  
  
David Monaghan was the most reserved member of the Tucker family that T'Pol had yet encountered. If not for his mother's earlier comments, the Vulcan might have wondered if the child were adopted. The gawky teen was apparently determined to maintain his fragile dignity, however much his parents and sisters attempted to dismantle it. He appeared most appreciative of her controlled greeting and her formal use of his full name.  
  
Observing the Tucker family in action left T'Pol feeling somewhat like an anthropologist. Though many of the family members had not seen each other in quite some time, as evidenced by the numerous vocal and physical demonstrations of affection, the various individuals fell into roles that were obviously familiar and comfortable.  
  
The house had a formal parlor, but the family—minus the children, who had been lured away by the forbidden promise of Grandpa Charlie's workshop—chose to congregate in the kitchen. It seemed most illogical to the young Vulcan, as the parlor offered more room for the active family. She did have to admit that each member was engaged productively, contributing to the forthcoming meal.  
  
Mrs. Tucker and Jean sailed gracefully between pantry, stove, drawers, and cupboards, with all the precision of a military drill team. Gerry Monaghan and Mr. Tucker were shelling peas and peeling potatoes, respectively. Even her _t'hai'la_ was busy, folding napkins into interesting shapes, obviously for decorative effect. After a moment's hesitation, T'Pol sat down at the kitchen table next to Charles, who smiled and immediately began to teach her how to fold the napkins into a shape called a bishop's miter.  
  
Mr. Tucker and his son-in-law were enjoying what the older man referred to as a slight libation. (T'Pol had been offered a drink, but had declined. The beverages were not at all slight, but they certainly appeared to be libational.) Trip had been forced to abstain by his mother, who cited instructions from Dr. Phlox. Her _t'hai'la_ pouted for several minutes before deciding that he would continue to make his despite being denied proper compensation.  
  
T'Pol was confused by the reference. Surely they had been folding the napkins to be used at dinner? Then her companion placed one of the folded napkins on his head and struck a noble pose. This resulted in barks of laughter from the other men, who quickly decided that they needed as well. As Trip hurried to comply with the request, the Vulcan glanced at his mother, hoping for some elucidation. Admittedly she was Vulcan, and therefore not conversant with all the intricacies of Earth humor; still, setting an artistically folded napkin upon one's head did not strike her as particularly amusing, even for humans. Mrs. Tucker met T'Pol's gaze and rolled her eyes, assuring the Vulcan that whatever humor was involved in the behavior, it was obviously weak, or perhaps gender-oriented. Relieved, she returned to her napkin-folding, simultaneously monitoring the conversation going on around her.  
  
Seems like old times, Jean reminisced from her position monitoring a pot on the stove. All of us working our fingers to the bone while we wait around for Danny to finally show up!Wouldn't be a family dinner if Dan wasn't fashionably late, Trip commented.  
  
Nothing fashionable about it, Mrs. Tucker grumbled as she sliced her way through a stack of carrots. That boy wouldn't know a decent outfit if it tackled him on a football field.  
  
This statement piqued the Vulcan's curiosity. Perhaps Charles' unfortunate clothing choices were the result of a genetic deficiency? It was definitely something she should look into, if they intended to have children together.  
  
groused Mr. Tucker. You'd think that stick-in-the-mud fella of his could get him places on time. Then at least he'd be good for something.Lighten up, Dad, Trip chided. 'Los is a good guy. He threw a teasing grin in his father's direction. You're just prejudiced cause he's not a boozehound, like you!  
  
This statement brought a round of appreciative laughter from all present, with the exception of the aforementioned boozehound. Mr. Tucker glowered and flicked a potato peeling at his son, his scowl turning to a smile when the projectile found its target. Another bout of laughter ended abruptly as Mrs. Tucker scolded her husband for behaving like a child and dirtying her kitchen.  
  
And you know, Jean continued the attack, sounding eerily like her mother, it's not like any of us put drinking buddy for Dad' high on the checklist when we were in the market for prospective life partners!  
  
Gerry chortled at this. Yup, Charlie-Da, you just lucked out with me!I'll drink to that! Mr. Tucker responded heartily. The two men clinked glasses and drained their tumblers.  
  
T'Pol was intrigued by the interaction. So much about her _t'hai'la_ was becoming clear to her. She reflected back on all their arguments, on his incessant needling. The Vulcan had always assumed his behavior was the result of negative feelings toward her, when evidence now indicated the exact opposite! In retrospect, it appeared as if Charles had accepted her and felt affection towards her quite early in their acquaintance.  
  
Her thoughts were distracted by an uproar from the living room. All the humans looked in the direction of the noise, their faces wearing looks of resigned or exasperated affection. Charles got to his feet and tottered toward the kitchen door. Before he got there, it swung open violently.  
  
What kind of welcome is this for a poor, prodigal son? the newcomer whined.  
  
Better than a swift kick in the ass, which is what you deserve for being so damn late! Mr. Tucker growled in response.  
  
Daniel Tucker chose to ignore his father, turning his attention to his brother instead, a huge grin lighting his face.  
  
Dan the Man! Trip cried, opening his arms so wide that he wobbled slightly.  
  
Whoa! Trip the Crip! Daniel responded with both delight and alarm, stepping forward to prevent a fall by enthusiastically embracing his brother.  
  
The two men spent several moments laughing and back-thumping, then Trip stood his younger brother off at arms length. Watch it, smartass, or I'll smack ya with my crutch! He then turned to T'Pol, who had risen to her feet for the obligatory introduction. Before her _t'hai'la_ could speak, however, his brother advanced on her with open arms.  
  
the redheaded human cried. I've heard so much about you!  
  
The Vulcan froze. Up to this point, Charles' family had been meticulously appropriate in respecting her species' preference for minimal physical contact. Such propriety appeared to be at an end, as Daniel Tucker obviously intended to enfold her in a rather ardent embrace.  
  
Suddenly, he was jerked to a halt, eyes bugging slightly. T'Pol was startled to see an extremely large man materialize behind him, holding him by the collar. The large man transferred Daniel to a secure location under his right arm, placing the smaller man in a firm but gentle headlock. He then turned a slow, warm smile on her, raising his left hand in the traditional Vulcan salute.  
  
he greeted her quietly, white teeth flashing in his dark face. It's good to finally meet you.  
  
The Vulcan returned his gesture, although she was still unsure of his exact identity. Charles, grinning delightedly, stepped in to rescue her.  
  
T'Pol, that's my brother, Danny, he said jovially, pointing to the redhead now looking slightly embarrassed from his position under the larger man's armpit. And this is Carlos Briseno, his better half, Trip continued.  
  
As T'Pol inclined her head in greeting, she heard Jean mutter darkly from somewhere behind her, His _much_ better half!  
  
Her brother chose to take exception to the remark, wriggling free from the headlock. Still our own little ray of sunshine, eh Nurse Rachett? he riposted, a smirk on his face.  
  
In one swift motion, and with practiced skill, Jean used her spatula to scoop and fling something from the pot she was tending. Her aim was true. A single baked bean plastered itself to her brother's forehead with an audible   
  
This was obviously akin to the throwing of a gauntlet, because Daniel yelped indignantly and launched himself at his sister. Before T'Pol knew what was happening, the two were tussling on the floor. The Vulcan glanced around uncertainly. No one moved to separate the combatants. In fact, only Mrs. Tucker reacted with any sort of censure, and her condemnation was restricted to a long-suffering sigh and a rolling of her eyes as she continued to bustle about the kitchen.  
  
The men also continued their chores, but flattened themselves along the periphery of the room while doing so. From their seats they monitored the fight, cheering the siblings, offering advice, and commenting on technique.  
  
As Jean and Daniel rolled her way, T'Pol stepped back to avoid a collision. The two quickly rolled in a different direction, leaving T'Pol staring after them in bemusement and consternation.  
  
It's pretty overwhelming, isn't it? said a voice next to her. The Vulcan looked up, surprised to find Carlos at her side. She wondered how so large an individual could move so unobtrusively.  
  
Is this type of behavior common? she inquired curiously.  
  
Carlos' eyes shifted to the two wrestling on the kitchen floor. For the Tucker house? Yeah, it's pretty normal, he responded, giving her an understanding smile. His eyes clouded momentarily. Although this is the first time since Lizzie died that they've been like this. He glanced fondly at his partner. Maybe this means Danny'll be lightening up some.  
  
T'Pol pondered the grown man fighting with his sister on the floor of their mother's kitchen. If she was correct in her interpretation of the slang phrase, she considered it unlikely that Daniel Tucker could get much   
  
For her part, Mrs. Tucker continued to prepare the meal, calmly stepping over her squabbling children whenever they rolled into her path. T'Pol was impressed. The human woman accepted the absurd situation with the equanimity of a Vulcan. Considering the childhood catastrophes recounted to her as the women had looked at the family photo albums, the Vulcan concluded that Mrs. Tucker had long ago learned to deal calmly with whatever fate happened to throw in her path.  
  
T'Pol's attention shifted to her _t'hai'la_. He had slid his own chair next to his father's, and as she watched, the two men surreptitiously exchanged the tumbler full of bourbon. Obviously Mr. Tucker planned to take advantage of the distraction to share the slight libation with his son.  
  
The Vulcan narrowed her eyes at the attempted contravention of Dr. Phlox's explicit instructions. Without a moment's hesitation, she strode briskly across the kitchen, intercepting the glass as Charles raised it to his lips. Before either he or his father could protest, she gave Gerald Monaghan a searching look. The Irishman raised his hands in surrender, to indicate that he had no intention whatsoever of sharing his own drink. With her point made, T'Pol cast one last admonishing glance at the two shamefaced Charles Tuckers and swept up to the kitchen sink, dumping the contents of the tumbler.  
  
In one synchronized motion, Mrs. Tucker plucked the empty glass from T'Pol's hand, muttering, Good girl! The human woman then filled the tumbler with cold water and threw it on her two scuffling children.  
  
You've had your fun, she stated calmly, in response to their indignant cries. Now clean up this mess and get ready for supper. When her children did not react with acceptable speed, Mrs. Tucker raised her eyebrows in intimidating disbelief. Don't _make_ me come over there, she advised in a mild voice. The age-old threat worked. Jean and Daniel leaped to their feet and began to follow their mother's instructions with alacrity.  
  
Mrs. Tucker gave one sharp nod of approval and returned to her food preparation. She gave T'Pol a pat on the back. Thanks for the help, honey. It's nice to finally have some back-up. T'Pol nodded back in understanding, watching all the cowed Tuckers finally behaving in a manner deemed appropriate by the matriarch of the clan.  
  
She raised her eyes to the other semi-objective observers present. A wicked and appreciative grin lit Gerry's simian face, as he raised his glass to her. Carlos, leaning against the opposite wall with his hands in his pockets, nodded several times, his mellow smile offering her a warm welcome to their exclusive little club. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Court and Spark**

**by Ragua**

Disclaimers in Chapter 1.

A/N: Sorry it has taken so long to get this chapter out. Real life has been oppressive of late.

For those who find the Tuckers a bit over the top, I should probably mention that most of their escapades are based on real life events. So now that I have admitted to coming from an extremely dysfunctional family, be nice!

**Chapter 5**

T'Pol eyed the windmill dubiously, recalling an ancient Earth text about a senile old man who attacked such structures from the back of a spavined equine. At the moment, the Vulcan felt an illogical sympathy for the mentally imbalanced literary character.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Trip mumbled nervously for the fourth time. "No one will think any less of you." He shifted uncomfortably. "We all know it's not a Vulcan thing. Everyone would understand."

She switched her attention to her mate, regarding him solemnly. "This activity obviously has great meaning for your family. I wish to participate in the exercise that I may better comprehend. It will be a valuable cultural experience."

With that, T'Pol returned her gaze to the tiny object on the ground at her feet. After focusing for a moment, she struck the dimpled blue sphere soundly. It rolled straight and true toward the gap at the base of the windmill. Unfortunately, she had once again miscalculated: one of the revolving blades denied the ball entry, knocking it back down the slight slope to its starting point.

She heard a snicker behind her, followed by a smack and an "Ow!" Obviously, Daniel found her predicament humorous, but one of the other family members—most likely Jean or Mrs. Tucker—felt that his amusement was disrespectful and had reacted accordingly.

As T'Pol attempted for the fifth time to calculate a successful trajectory, Mr. Tucker walked over and scooped up her golf ball. "Don't worry about it, T'Pol," he consoled. "Hardly a thing in the world as frustrating as putt-putt! 'Specially when it's your first time." With that, he tossed the ball clear over the windmill, where it bounced several times on the worn green surface and rolled toward the hole that was its ultimate destination.

The Vulcan furrowed her brow. Was she being patronized? Did these humans believe her species incapable of correctly guiding a miniature sphere through an obstacle course with a crooked metal stick? However bizarre a ritual it was, T'Pol was determined to master it. Even the children had managed to safely transfer their spheres past the windmill after only one or two attempts. Surely she, a scientist, should be able to accomplish as much!

Before she could protest, however, the entire human contingent had followed Mr. Tucker's lead and was moving on from the tee box to the green. Gerald Monaghan and the children were awaiting them at the tee for the next hole, having sunk their brightly colored golf balls into the windmill hole already. T'Pol stood quietly, analyzing technique, as those with spheres still aboveground took turns knocking them toward the hole. When it was finally her turn, she was gratified that she managed to sink her sphere after striking it only twice.

As her group proceeded to the next tee box, T'Pol found herself walking between Carlos and Daniel. Trip was trailing behind, having stubbornly denied needing any assistance. The young Vulcan addressed her mate's brother.

"I fail to understand why your family refers to this activity as... 'putt-putt,'" she commented. "I was under the impression that the official designation of this pastime was 'miniature golf.'"

Danny Tucker gave her a bemused look. "Well...it's just...it's putt-putt. It's always been called putt-putt." He pondered for a moment, then assured her confidently, "Yep. Everyone calls it putt-putt!"

T'Pol cocked an eyebrow, letting her gaze drift over his red head to the bright green, red, blue, and yellow neon sign that blared, "Buddy's Miniature Golf! Fun for the Whole Family!"

"Everyone except the proprietor of this establishment?" she inquired innocently.

A bark of laughter told her that Trip had overheard her comment. There was even a suspicious rumble from Carlos. Daniel Tucker, however, waved her query aside with a scowl and a disparaging noise. "It's putt-putt," he affirmed in a tone that brooked no arguments. Seeing the Vulcan's skeptical gaze, he went on. "Ya don't have chippin' and drivin' like ya do in regular golf. Ya just putt. So it's called putt-putt!" Daniel nodded his head once, as if to punctuate that this was the end of the matter. He seemed to feel that she was impugning the pastime by questioning the origins of its name.

T'Pol found it curious that such a trivial subject could elicit such a serious response from the usually lighthearted human. She mulled over the topic in silence as they waited for the other group to take turns knocking their golf balls along a narrow lever that Jean Tucker had called a "seesaw." Frankie had to strike her sphere several times: her first attempt rolled off the edge of the lever and into a chasm that spat the ball back toward the tee box; her second attempt was straight, but was of insufficient velocity to enable the ball to tip the lever on its axis, so the ball once again rolled back to the tee box.

The young Vulcan monitored the attempts of the other players in order to identify all the variables of the obstacle. To her relief—although she would never allow the humans to see it—the "seesaw" hole proved much easier for her than the windmill hole. It was a simple matter of physics, with no factors other than the trajectory and velocity of the ball coming into play.

Once they had completed the "seesaw" hole, T'Pol continued her inquiry. "I understand the use of the verb in referring to this activity," she explained to Daniel Tucker. "What seems illogical is the repetition of the word. Should not the activity simply be referred to as 'putt?'"

Once again, her mate was forced to stifle his laughter, while Carlos too rumbled with amusement. Even Daniel Tucker, heretofore so serious on the subject of miniature golf, broke into a smile. "Well, T'Pol," he drawled, sounding much like his brother. "It's actually real logical, when ya think about it. If ya could hit the ball into the hole with just one swing, callin' it 'putt' might make sense." His grin widened. "But considerin' the number of swings most of us have to take, 'putt-putt' is a more appropriate..." He trailed off, attempting to come up with the proper word.

"...appellation," Carlos supplied.

Daniel beamed at his mate. "Appellation. Perfect!" He slanted his eyes back at the Vulcan, wickedly. "'Course, for some people, it would make even more sense to call it putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt—" The redhead might have gone on for quite a few more "putts" had his brother not come up behind and thwacked him on the head.

"That's enough, Dan," Trip chided, amused at the joke, but unwilling to allow his brother to tease the Vulcan too much. Carlos casually herded Daniel away, in order to prevent yet another possible sibling tussle.

As the couple moved ahead, T'Pol glanced at her human. He grinned sheepishly. "Dan's just playin'," Trip explained, with a slightly worried expression. "He doesn't mean anything by it."

T'Pol slowed her pace to match his. "I was not offended." Her mated gazed at her curiously. "It has become apparent," the Vulcan elaborated, "that your family commonly uses insults and teasing as a means of expressing affection and camaraderie. That your brother chooses to mock me implies that he accepts and appreciates me as an individual."

Charles looked somewhat bemused at her ready acceptance of his family's human foibles. Then he sighed in appreciation and relief. Before he could respond, however, several shouts of warning drew their attention to the tee box ahead.

"Fore!" "Heads up!" "Look out!" "Incoming!" Gerald Monaghan, Mr. Tucker, Jean, and Daniel all cried out simultaneously.

T'Pol caught a brief glimpse of a club rotating through the air toward a multicolored clown face before her attention was entirely claimed by a bright red golf ball on an intercept course with her head. She threw herself to the ground, dragging her mate down with her. The tiny sphere shot past them and buried itself in a wooden bench to their left, its velocity enabling the tiny sphere to wedge itself between the slats.

The ball's landing was immediately followed by a loud "chunk!" announcing that the airborne club had made violent contact with the clown's face. The plastic obstacle was in no way damaged: it's maniacal expression remained unchanged, the faded pink tongue forming a ramp to its mouth—the path the potentially lethal red golf ball _should_ have taken.

All eyes turned to the individual responsible for the dual assault. Four-year-old Frankie was frozen in position, like a hologram paused as it demonstrated a textbook golf swing. The child's form might have been admirable on the tee box of a 385-yard Par 5 hole. On a miniature golf course, however, it was just short of catastrophic.

Frankie finally moved, staring at her empty hands as if wondering why her club was no longer there. The other children remained still, eyeballing the adults in trepidation, wondering what the response might be. For their part, the adults still on their feet simply stared at each other, wondering what their response _should_ be.

Before any of them could decide upon the appropriate course of action, a disheveled red head peeped up over the bench in which the errant golf ball had imbedded itself.

"Good God Gertie!" Daniel Tucker bellowed theatrically. "My life flashed before my eyes! It was like _deja vu_, all over again!" There was the briefest of pauses, and suddenly, just like that, all the Tuckers were laughing hysterically.

T'Pol, taken aback, stared at her mate. "No, no!" he cried to his brother. "It's genetics. It's gotta be. I betcha we're doomed to experience this at least once every generation!"

As the laughter continued, Jean joined the hilarity. "You were only five," she gasped between giggles, her eyes watering as she tried to focus on her younger brother. "I can't believe you remember that!"

"What can I say?" Daniel Tucker grimaced at the memory. "A backswing to the 'nads leaves a lasting impression."

At this statement—incomprehensible to the Vulcan, but generating a new wave of merriment among the humans—Carlos' head popped up from behind the bench. He contemplated his mate for a moment, amusement glittering in his heavy-lidded eyes. "Obviously, no lasting damage done, eh, _querido_?"

Now it was Daniel's turn to laugh, his face turning a red to match his hair. The other Tuckers were not long in joining in. T'Pol glanced around, hoping for enlightenment. The only humans not laughing at this point were the children, and it seemed as if David Monaghan was on the verge but couldn't decide whether or not such a display of amusement would be appropriate to his adolescent dignity.

The young Vulcan felt left out. Her mate caught her puzzled gaze, and he smiled warmly between chuckles, grasping her hands. "It's a long, sordid story," he gurgled, by way of explanation.

"Sounds like something I'd love to hear!" Gerald Monaghan encouraged. Carlos nodded several times in quick succession, which was, for him, an expression of intense enthusiasm. He caught the Vulcan's eye and favored her with his slow, amiable grin.

T'Pol felt comforted. They would not exclude her. She added her voice to those of the other family-members-by-proxy. "Yes. I find the stories of your childhood most intriguing. Particularly those in which you and your siblings 'wreak havoc.'"

T'Pol suspected that her words might elicit further amusement from the Tuckers, and she was not disappointed. Howls of laughter greeted her deadpan statement. The young Vulcan felt an electric jolt of satisfaction. She had made a successful joke! A gentle squeeze at her elbow told her that Trip recognized both the intentional nature of the joke and her pleasure in making it. Still, she _was_ Vulcan. She schooled her expression carefully, but as she did so, she allowed her eyes to meet those of her mate, and for a nanosecond, they shared a joke of their own.

Then Mrs. Tucker stepped up to explain the original source of mirth. "Anyone with half a brain will tell you that it's not too smart to give kids basically what amounts to a weapon." She waved vaguely at the golf club that had bludgeoned the forehead of the plastic clown and now lay innocently on the _faux_ grass in front of the obstacle. "But it was our first time takin' all four of the kids to putt-putt, so maybe we had an excuse."

"Maybe," echoed Mr. Tucker doubtfully, inspecting the large dent in the forehead of the plastic clown.

T'Pol found herself agreeing with the initial statement. When they had first begun the activity, she had wondered at the wisdom of allowing children free access to what were essentially steel clubs. Now she felt somewhat vindicated.

"Anyway," Jean took up the narrative, "Lizzie had obviously been watching too much golf with Dad on the holovids."

"Hey, don't try to put it all on me!" Mr. Tucker protested. "I can't help it if she was interested in the sport!" When his children turned sour looks on him, he went on undaunted. "And I don't care what you say, she had great form. Why, if she had 'a taken up the sport, she'd 'a been hittin' it 300 yards off the tee regularly!"

Daniel eyeballed his father skeptically and let loose a scornful snort before continuing the story. "So there we were, all minding our own business, while Lizzie was set to tee off on her very first hole of putt-putt—"

"Oh, 'minding our own business' my ass, Danny!" Jean chortled. "You were heckling Lizzie something fierce. It's no wonder she clocked you!"

"Yeah," Trip agreed with his sister. "I always thought she planned on nailing you. Unfortunately, Jean and I were collateral damage."

Mrs. Tucker took up the narrative once again. "Basically, Lizzie got all three of them with one swing." At the startled looks on the faces of Gerald and Carlos, she elaborated. "She caught Danny with the backswing," she explained, nodding at her younger son. "Then the ball hit Jeannie in the eye." Jean pointed to her right eye, so the audience would know exactly where she had been wounded. "Then the club flew out of her hand and caught Trip in the back of the head." Surprised, T'Pol turned her attention to her mate, who looked very aggrieved at the memory of the unprovoked assault.

"And I really _was_ just mindin' my own business!" he exclaimed. "I was getting a drink of water!" The explanation was followed by a gesture to one of the many fountains that dotted the miniature course. His indignation did not prevent the others from laughing at the picture his words presented. After a moment's pause, Mr. Tucker continued with the tale.

"So there we were: one kid blinded, one kid castrated, and one kid knocked out." The older man shook his head in chagrin at the memory. "Mother and I must have stared at each other for a good five minutes, trying to figure out what to do."

All eyes turned to Mrs. Tucker to find out how the situation _had_ been handled. The older woman gave them a world-weary grin.

"We decided we'd had enough putt-putt for the day. We packed all the kids up and went for pizza and beer." She grinned at the memory, then drew herself up with sudden dignity. "I mean, Charlie and I had beer. The kids had pop."

"And three ice packs," Danny added with a touch of asperity.

This grouchy statement generated another bout of laughter. T'Pol looked at her mate with some concern.

"While I appreciate the colorful nature of these stories from your childhood," she began, "they all seem to involve a great deal of...carnage."

The Vulcan's statement, which a pause in the laughter made audible to all, caused still more hilarity. T'Pol cocked an eyebrow at her mate.

"So now ya know," he explained with a grin. "All that trouble I get in on _Enterprise_ is just par for the course."

T'Pol gave him a searching look. "Indeed," she stated, glancing around at the members of his family, still laughing at the shared memories. Mrs. Tucker, in particular, caught her eye and smiled as she laughed. The young Vulcan again felt an unfamiliar warmth touch her, somewhere deep inside.

The feeling was not at all unpleasant.


	6. Chapter 6

**Court and Spark**

by Ragua

Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimers in Chapter 1.

A/N: Once again, I apologize for taking so long to get this chapter out. I wasn't lying around on my couch eating bonbons! I've been incredibly busy writing to the various boneheads responsible for making crap decisions about _Enterprise_.

A/N: Check out the Vulcan Language Institute if you want a translation of any of the Vulcan words. (Although I did make one up.)

A/N: A certain character makes a special guest appearance, just for Myst!

Chapter 6

A breeze lifted the branches of the trees surrounding the house, momentarily obscuring the full moon. Then the wind stilled, and the luminous orb again appeared on the horizon. T'Pol inhaled deeply, savoring the musky scent of the local flora.

She and Trip had made it their habit to relax in the porch swing before retiring for the night. It was one of the few places and times when they could be alone, without fear of interruption. T'Pol knew her mate's family believed that she and Trip used the time to engage in sex play. As their assumption afforded the couple some valuable privacy, she did not disabuse them of this notion. Though her mate might periodically use his lips to demonstrate affection, the two of them primarily sat together quietly, enjoying the physical and emotional closeness. The evenings in the porch swing had become a shared meditation—peaceful, calming: a serene end to the day.

Tonight, however, a conundrum prevented T'Pol from finding the tranquility of previous evenings. It had plagued her all day—indeed, the problem had been growing more and more apparent over the last few days. Finally, she could suppress her concern no longer.

"Your niece dislikes me. Intensely."

Her mate sighed, not even attempting to deny it. The feel of the exhalation, more than the sound, told her that the situation disturbed him as well: his body deflating slightly next to hers, his breath slow and warm against her cheek. His silence confirmed her theory, but it also told her that he knew as little as she about how to solve the problem.

They continued to swing, pondering the situation.

"She'll come around," her mate finally ventured. "Just give it some time."

"I will be leaving in less than a week," T'Pol responded. "I suspect that acquiring Bernice's goodwill will require more time than I have." Trip sighed again and nodded in discouraged agreement.

T'Pol felt a stab of guilt over his predicament. Ordinarily, she could have cared less what a nine-year-old of any species thought of her. But this was her _t'hai'la's_ niece. It obviously pained him that a member of his family would not accept her. He was caught between two people he loved, and of course he could not choose between them. Nor should he have to.

Bernice's behavior was illogical, but then she was a human child. Humans were illogical. Children were illogical. The little girl was doubly handicapped. T'Pol narrowed her eyes, considering. As an adult and a Vulcan, it was her responsibility to address this failure of logic.

"I will speak with her," she declared firmly.

Trip started, alerting T'Pol to the fact that she had voiced her decision aloud. "Are you sure about that, T'Pol?" he inquired dubiously. "I hate the idea that she'd be rude or disrespectful to you. Bernie can be awfully stubborn, you know!"

The Vulcan cocked an eyebrow at him, hoping to lighten his mood. "If memory serves, that is an adjective you have more than once used to describe me."

A slow grin and a chuckle informed her that her attempt at humor was successful. He leaned in and pecked her on the cheek. "The irresistible force meets the immovable object! I'd better start collecting bets. This'll be better'n those historic Ali-Frasier vids!"

T'Pol had no idea what he was talking about, but her obvious confusion just made him laugh more. _A small price to pay_, she thought, as he leaned in and kissed her again.

* * *

T'Pol sat cross-legged in the clearing by the lake, awaiting her opponent. She had known for some time—even before her discussion with Trip the night before—that Bernie Monaghan had been following her around surreptitiously. With this in mind, the Vulcan had planned her strategy carefully, choosing the lake as the appropriate location for the inevitable confrontation. Whether or not the child knew of the spot's emotional significance, T'Pol did. It was the closest thing to a sacred locale for the Tucker family, and the Vulcan intended to use that knowledge to draw strength for her encounter with the hard-headed little girl.

Relaxing into her meditative pose, she closed her eyes, allowing her other senses free rein. After several moments of stillness, she identified what she sought. Off to the right, and somewhat behind her, she detected a rustling in the brush. Tilting her head to one side, she inhaled deeply. There it was, on the breeze—the scent of a young human. T'Pol felt a slightly feral satisfaction at locating her prey so easily.

"I believe it is considered rude, even among humans, to spy on someone," the Vulcan called over her shoulder, in the direction of the rustling. "It would be far more logical to come out of your hiding spot and address me."

Absolute silence greeted the invitation. Obviously, Bernie Monaghan had not taken into account a Vulcan's superior hearing and heightened sense of smell when she had begun stalking her uncle's mate. T'Pol waited for some reaction to her words, but none came.

"You are afraid. That is understandable. Ignorance often leads to fear."

As the Vulcan expected, a snort of indignation greeted this statement. "I'm not afraid of you!" a sulky voice responded.

"Your behavior suggests otherwise," T'Pol countered.

There was a slight pause, then more rustling. Eventually, a scruffy, dirty, snub-nosed child emerged from the bushes to T'Pol's right. Bernie stood with her hands on her hips, trying to hide her uncertainty with a display of bravado. The twigs in her tangled hair and jug ears sticking out from a face that greatly resembled that of her father made the child seem like an adolescent chimpanzee confronting a hostile alpha male.

T'Pol acknowledged the child's presence with a serene nod, then turned back to her meditation, listening as the little girl shifted her weight from foot to foot. "You would be more comfortable if you sat," she suggested. Bernie circled the Vulcan warily, choosing a spot just within T'Pol's frame of vision, but still several meters away. They sat in silence for some moments before T'Pol went on. "You have been following me for several days. Is there something you wish to discuss?"

The child scowled, looking at the ground. Not expecting such a direct approach, she was obviously uncertain how to proceed. But she was not a Tucker for nothing.

"Why don't you go away and leave my uncle alone?" she demanded, leaning forward aggressively, practically bristling at the perceived interloper.

T'Pol turned a puzzled gaze on the angry child. "Why would I wish to do that?"

"Why not?" Bernie snapped. "You don't love him. You should let him go, so he can find someone who does!"

The Vulcan was taken aback, but did not let it show. She should have expected this. "Why do you assume that I do not love your uncle?"

Her calm question caught the child off guard. "Well," Bernie stammered, "You...you're a Vulcan! Vulcans can't be in love!"

"Why do you believe Vulcans are incapable of love?" T'Pol persisted.

The little girl's face wrinkled in simian confusion. "You...you don't have feelings," she finally blurted. "So how could you love anyone?"

T'Pol cocked her head at the child. "Vulcans _do_ have feelings. We simply do not show them."

The child blinked in surprise, silenced for a moment as she puzzled over this new piece of information. After a short bout of inner turmoil, however, she doggedly continued her argument. "But it's obvious you don't love Uncle Trip! You never kiss or hug. You don't even hold hands! It's like you think he's nasty, or something—like you don't want to touch him!" The little girl glowered fiercely, insulted at the perceived slight to her uncle.

T'Pol took a deep breath. It would not do to tell the little girl that she couldn't be further from the truth. That the Vulcan had to exercise _incredible_ self-control to keep from touching her mate every chance she got was none of this impertinent child's business!

Schooling her expression, T'Pol explained calmly, "Vulcans avoid displays of emotion, including physical expressions of affection."

"But humans _do_ show affection! And my uncle's human!"

"I appreciate beyond measure that he is willing to make this sacrifice for me—that he cares enough to respect my culture." Bernie sat back at this, disarmed by the unexpected praise, giving T'Pol the opportunity to continue. "His generosity and compassion are two of the many qualities that led me to...love your uncle."

The child was thunderstruck at this declaration. She sat up straight, staring at the Vulcan with her mouth open in a small "O" of shock. Just when T'Pol thought she had succeeded in reaching the child, Bernie leapt to her feet, hands clenched into fists, a scowl replacing the look of surprise.

"Why is _he_ the only one making sacrifices!" Bernie demanded. She narrowed her eyes at the Vulcan. "What sacrifices have _you_ made for _him_?"

When T'Pol failed to respond, the child huffed self-righteously and stomped off down the trail. The Vulcan watched her go sombrely. It appeared that this battle would be more difficult that she thought.

She closed her eyes and began to meditate in earnest.

* * *

As she slowly made her way back to the house, T'Pol pondered her next course of action. Bernice Monaghan had been willing to listen to the Vulcan's perspective to a point, but the child was obviously not ready to accept T'Pol as her uncle's bondmate just yet. She somehow had to convince the stubborn little girl that sacrifices were being made on both sides.

But how?

For the first time, T'Pol truly gave thought to the sacrifices she might be making in choosing to bond with a human. The Vulcan High Command would no doubt expel her. It was more than likely that she would be ostracized by her people, at least in some form. As a supposedly enlightened race, no official statement condemning her would be made. The hoary ancients in positions of power gave lip-service to IDIC, so they would make an official show of accepting her choice. But culturally? Socially?

No.

Too many Vulcans considered themselves superior to other races, particularly humans. Any Vulcan who chose a human mate would become something of a pariah. The sudden realization brought T'Pol up short. T'Khasi would always be her home, but her welcome there would no longer be assured.

The young Vulcan stood on the path, unmoving, for some time.

* * *

Given her current level of mental and emotional turmoil, the last thing T'Pol needed upon her return to the house was the message that awaited her.

"You had a comm from Ambassador Soval while you were out, T'Pol," Mrs. Tucker informed her as she came into the kitchen through the back door. "I told him you were off meditating, but that you'd contact him once you got back." The older woman hesitated, sensing something amiss in T'Pol's sudden stillness. "I hope that was all right?"

T'Pol raised her eyes, as if seeing the other woman for the first time. If her mate were Vulcan, her relationship with this woman would be clearly defined. She would know exactly where she stood. They would speak to each other using traditional forms of address. Terms of respect, used for millennia. An indication of family. A sign of acceptance.

By bonding with a human, T'Pol would deny herself the comfort of tradition. She would always wonder at simple things, her position in both societies vulnerable to every trivial point of etiquette, her status dependent on the whim of an appropriate form of address.

But she could not allow her doubts to dictate her behavior. Instead, she responded calmly to the question.

"Yes, that is agreeable. I will return his call immediately."

"Comm's in the den," Mrs. Tucker said with a vague gesture to a part of the house that T'Pol had visited only briefly, before turning to begin preparations for the noon meal. T'Pol watched the human pensively for a moment, then moved to contact the ambassador.

Soval's face was stonier than usual when it appeared on her monitor. The ambassador wasted no time with trivialities.

"You did not inform me that you were staying with _humans_!" he accused.

"You did not ask," T'Pol replied calmly.

Her elder's nostrils flared momentarily, be he did not lose control. "From the accent of the woman with whom I spoke earlier, can I assume that you are staying with...Commander Tucker?" The ambassador's tone dripped with distaste.

"That is correct," T'Pol replied. Soval waited, apparently expecting more. When no further explanation came, he began fishing for information.

"It is very...illogical for you to reside with humans rather than in the Vulcan compound."

"Mrs. Tucker was extremely gracious during her short visit to _Enterprise_. She invited me to be her guest." The young Vulcan experienced a brief moment of regret at the vague explanation, which seemed less than honest. "I hold Commander Tucker in great esteem. We became quite...close during our time in the Expanse. It seemed logical to accept his mother's invitation." T'Pol met Soval's surprise with a challenging look. "I suspect, Ambassador, that you did not contact me to discuss my choice of friends."

Soval pressed his lips together primly, condemnation apparent in every line of his face, but he took the hint and got to the point. "The High Command has completed an extensive examination of your actions," he said. "It has been decided that your rank and privileges be reinstated." He inclined his head toward her, with the air of one conferring a favour.

"How much time will I have to decide if I will accept the reinstatement?" T'Pol asked thoughtfully.

Soval was dumbfounded. It took him several moments to find his voice. "Decide if you will accept...?" he repeated in disbelief. "The High Command's offer is incredibly generous! What logical reason could you have to refuse reinstatement?"

She eyed him speculatively, wondering just how much information she should disclose. It would all come out eventually, so what logic could there be in dissembling at this point? Still, the decisions she made about her personal life were just that—personal. Neither she nor anyone else had the right to more information than she chose to provide.

"I am no longer the same person I was before I began serving on _Enterprise_," she began. "Many of my actions in the last three years have run contrary to the philosophy of the High Command. Therefore, it would be illogical to accept reinstatement when there is a great likelihood that future actions on my part would again threaten that position."

Soval narrowed his eyes at his one-time protégé. However much she had taken him by surprise with her pronouncement, he was neither slow nor obtuse. "Are you thinking of a specific action which might be condemned by the High Command, T'Pol?"

There was a brief pause as the young Vulcan tried to formulate an adequate response. Her hesitation allowed Soval to expand his inquiry. "T'Pol, what is the nature of your..._friendship_...with Commander Tucker?"

The young Vulcan was silent just long enough to give him an answer to his question. His eyes widened in shock, and he gasped out a protest. "T'Pol, do you have _any_ idea—"

"Ambassador," the young Vulcan interrupted him. "Our people have long respected each other's privacy concerning decisions that affect one's personal life. I do not believe you should deviate from custom at this time." Before he could respond, she inclined her head. "It is time for our noon meal. Good day, Ambassador." She closed the connection just as he was opening his mouth to speak again.

T'Pol stared at the blank monitor screen for some time after the conclusion of the conversation. She had made her choice. There was no turning back.

The young Vulcan got up and headed for the kitchen to help her _tel-ko-mekh_ prepare lunch.

* * *

"Penny for your thoughts."

Trip's utterance caught T'Pol by surprise. She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts she had forgotten where she was: sitting on the porch swing, nestled in the circle of his arm. She looked up into his quizzical blue eyes.

"I was unaware that my mental workings had monetary value," she quipped.

As she had hoped, her comment distracted him from his inquiry. He threw back his head in laughter, momentarily squeezing her closer and deftly tweaking her ear. She allowed the caress for a few seconds, shivering in delight. Then she gave him a gentle elbow in the ribs to remind him that they had agreed not to start anything that couldn't safely be finished. Her mate sighed theatrically, and instead set the porch swing in motion again, the giddy smile on his face letting her know that he wasn't too disappointed.

T'Pol returned to her previous line of thought. Her confrontations with both Bernice and Soval had led her to a surprising revelation. Having to defend her relationship with a human, having to think about it—and him—in such depth, had made her realize that there truly was no going back. Or rather, the option of going back no longer existed.

They had bonded.

When had it happened? T'Pol wondered. During their time in the Expanse? As a result of the mind meld? Or more recently, when she had been introduced to his family?

It had certainly begun to manifest itself more these past few weeks. The ease with which she was able to meditate when he was near. Indeed, how very soothing his presence was! The fact that she now thought of him primarily as "Trip." Before, she would never have used such an illogical nickname. Now, she found it difficult to think of him as anything else. She had believed the change was a result of her interaction with his family, who only referred to her mate by his nickname. But now she realized that it was because that was how he saw himself, how he thought of himself. _Trip_. Therefore, it was how _she_ thought of him.

He seemed more attuned to her, as well. Just now. She had not wished to speak. She wanted only to sift through her thoughts, in order to better understand what was happening to her. Somehow, he had sensed that, and had afforded her the space she needed. Before, he might have pressed her about her continued silence and pensiveness, but now he seemed to intuitively understand that he should not.

Abruptly, T'Pol leaned into him, laying her head on his chest, awed by what had happened—was happening!—between them. Her bondmate responded by tightening his grip on her shoulders and planting a gentle kiss on the crown of her head.

* * *

A familiar scent greeted T'Pol as she slowly came out of her meditative state. Upon opening her eyes, she was not surprised to see Bernice Monaghan seated opposite her. The Vulcan cocked an eyebrow at the human child, inviting Bernie to explain her presence.

The little girl flushed slightly, but quickly set her jaw with the air of one prepared to complete an onerous task. T'Pol had a disconcerting sense of _déjà vu_: her mate sitting across from her, admitting to having read a personal communiqué. At that moment, short, moonfaced Bernice Monaghan had never resembled her uncle more.

T'Pol forced her thoughts back to the child in front of her. The human girl cleared her throat and launched into what was obviously a prepared speech.

"I heard you telling off that mean old Vulcan. The other Vulcans aren't going to be too happy about your...your being with my uncle," Bernie began. "Are they gonna kick you out?" she asked.

The Vulcan's mind reeled for a second. Kick her out of what? Of the High Command? Of her home planet? Of her species? Then her logic reasserted itself. To a nine-year-old, being "kicked out" of anything was most likely the worst punishment imaginable.

"While I will no doubt face a great deal of censure for my decision to 'be with' your uncle, it is unlikely that I will be 'kicked out,'" T'Pol reassured the worried child. "I have already resigned my commission in the Vulcan High Command, and the majority of my people profess a respect for diversity. Whatever their personal feelings about my choice, they cannot openly condemn me without also condemning one of the basic beliefs on which Vulcan society is founded."

T'Pol wondered if her explanation would make any sense to a nine-year-old, but Bernice was nodding sagely. "They'll be nice to your face, but they'll do mean things when they get a chance," the little girl stated, her face furrowing in indignation. "It's not fair!"

The Vulcan marvelled at how quickly her adversary had become an ally. "As the human saying goes, your uncle and I will 'cross that bridge when we come to it.' Do not let it concern you. It does not concern me," she assured the child. Then she frowned. "What _does_ concern me, however, is your inclination for...covert surveillance." T'Pol's eyes bored into those of the suddenly-embarrassed child. "Eavesdropping is another form of spying, Bernice. It is extremely inappropriate."

The child, although red-faced, gave the Vulcan a cheeky grin. "Okay, I'll stop." Bernice hesitated, as though deciding whether or not to divulge further information. Her ebullient nature—which had never before asserted itself in T'Pol's presence—won out. "It's not like you and Uncle Trip were doing much worth watching out there on the porch swing, anyway!"

T'Pol sat up perfectly straight, unable to control her indignation. "You have been spying on our private moments together, as well?"

The child's countenance again became guilt-ridden. "Well," she began, somewhat defensively, "That's why I figured you didn't really love my uncle. Even when you were alone you didn't...do much!"

"A wise decision, in retrospect," T'Pol responded dryly. At the child's guilty flush, however, she softened her voice. "If you must know, Bernice, I have made a conscious decision to refrain from certain expressions of physical affection while your uncle is still convalescing. Any kind of...strenuous activity...might be detrimental to his health. It is therefore illogical to...start something that we would be unable to finish."

Her face still pointed at the ground, the child's eyes peeked up at T'Pol from beneath mobile eyebrows. "Does that mean I can keep watching, then?" she asked, a giggle threatening to break through the query.

T'Pol gave the child a stony glare.

"No."

* * *

Upon returning to the house, Bernice gave T'Pol a cheery, "See ya later," and skipped upstairs to clean up before dinner. While the Vulcan was pondering the whimsical nature of young humans, Mr. Tucker called out to her from the kitchen.

"Ol' Soval comm'ed again while you were out, T'Pol," he explained. "I told him you'd get back to him when you got in." The human hesitated a minute. "He seemed kinda mad."

_No doubt_, T'Pol thought to herself. Aloud she responded, "Ambassador Soval is Vulcan, Mr. Tucker. It is not uncommon for humans to interpret his lack of emotion as a sign of anger."

Mr. Tucker did not look convinced, but he said nothing when she thanked him and turned away. Before she closed the door to the den, however, she heard him mutter, "Yeah, right. That bitter old Vulcan was pissed off, and that's all there is to it!"

The ambassador's visage exploded onto her monitor almost instantaneously, as if he had been waiting for her comm with his hand poised over the controls.

"Ambassador," she began, but he interrupted before she got any further.

"T'Pol, you absolutely _must_ reconsider your...your decision," the older Vulcan snapped without preamble. "It's bad enough to consider...allying yourself with any human, but this particular gene pool—"

"What do you mean!" demanded T'Pol, feeling a sudden, defensive anger that he should slight the people who had so graciously and lovingly accepted her into their family.

Soval took a deep, calming breath. "This morning I was comm'ed by an incredibly rude and presumptuous human child!" he barked. "In a manner disturbingly reminiscent of a certain Starfleet engineer, this child proceeded to berate me for small-mindedness, all manner of villainy, and," Soval took another deep breath before going on in disgust, "being mean to you!"

The older man paused in his tirade, giving T'Pol an opening. "Ambassador, I apologize. I learned only this afternoon that my...mate's niece eavesdropped on our conversation yesterday." T'Pol frowned. "She feels very protective of her uncle and apparently, by extension, of myself. I will chastise her immediately for these illogical actions, and I will ensure that she does not contact you again!"

Though somewhat mollified by T'Pol's immediate and supportive response, the Vulcan elder did not lessen his penetrating glare. T'Pol returned his gaze defiantly.

"Your...mate, T'Pol?" he finally asked, with a touch of uncertainty.

"My mate," she confirmed. "I have reason to believe that we are bonded."

The silence went on for some time, as Soval continued to gaze at her thoughtfully.

"It is difficult, but bonds may be broken," he ventured cautiously.

"I do not wish it," T'Pol responded firmly. "Commander Tucker is generous and honest and honorable. I could not have found a better mate. Of _any_ species." The young Vulcan took several deep breaths before going on in a more measured tone. "And I would appreciate if you did not denigrate my mate or his family in my presence."

Soval met her eyes before bowing his head slightly, as though in shame. "I meant no disrespect, T'Pol." He hesitated a moment before continuing. "And however illogical and emotional I find him, I must agree with your assessment of Commander Tucker's admirable qualities." His eyes twinkled at the look of surprise on T'Pol's face. Then all amusement disappeared, and he spoke earnestly.

"I championed you after the incident at P'Jemm," he began. "And again, for your decision to remain aboard _Enterprise_ during the Xindi mission." His eyes became almost sorrowful. "But...with this decision, child..." Soval broke off, unable to continue.

"I appreciate all that you have done for me," T'Pol replied, carefully controlling her own emotion. "You will always be my _osavensu._ But from here on, I believe I must follow my own path."

His eyes glowed with both regret and pride. He nodded in understanding, then raised his hand in farewell.

"Live long and prosper, _T'Pol-kan._"

"Peace and long life, _sa-kuk._"

* * *

When Bernice got up from the dinner table to take her turn doing the dishes, T'Pol rose as well, stating, "I will assist you, Bernice." Once the two of them were alone in the kitchen, T'Pol addressed the girl.

"I had a conversation with Ambassador Soval this afternoon," she began, scraping the leftovers into the reconstitution unit.

"Again?" Bernie asked innocently. "Hmmmmm."

"He was most disturbed over a communiqué from an extremely emotional human child," T'Pol went on.

"Ummmm..."

"I assured him that I would do whatever was necessary to discover the identity of this child," T'Pol said, handing the scraped dishes to Bernice to be placed into the cleansing unit. "Upon accomplishing that, I told him I would chastise the child severely and ensure that such a thing would never happen again."

Bernie continued to load the cleansing unit in absolute silence. Out of the corner of her eye, T'Pol could see the little girl's flushed, nervous face. The child was obviously concerned about whatever consequences she might have to face.

"Bernice." T'Pol finally turned to face the child. She did not continue until Bernie had ceased all activity and was facing her in turn. When the child raised her eyes to T'Pol's, the Vulcan nodded once in satisfaction.

"Consider yourself chastised. Please do not allow this to happen again." And with that, T'Pol went back to scraping the dinner dishes. After a slight hesitation, Bernie resumed her task, as well. T'Pol noted a relieved look and a smile on the round face.

"Hey, T'Pol?"

"Yes, Bernice?"

"Um...when I was spying on you and Uncle Trip in the porch swing...um...before I stopped, of course..."

"Yes?"

"I noticed that...well,...Grandpa Charlie's been spying on you guys, too."

At this, T'Pol straightened up and turned to face the child in consternation.

Bernie glanced up from her chore with a sheepish grin. "Just thought you should know."

* * *

"Penny for your thoughts."

T'Pol was prepared for her mate's question this evening.

"I believe that Bernice and I have reached an understanding," she murmured in satisfaction.

Trip chuckled. "I noticed that a lot of the tension was gone during dinner," he said. "Did you gals have a nice chat while doing the dishes?"

"It was most enlightening," T'Pol responded, wondering where Mr. Tucker was at this moment. From this angle, the best possible observation point would be the parlour window. She would investigate her suspicions tomorrow.

"Heard you talked to Soval a couple times in the past few days," her mate commented.

"Soval and I have also reached an understanding," T'Pol said quietly, carefully keeping the regret from her voice.

But he sensed it. Whether he heard something in her tone or felt the tension in her body, her mate was aware that there was more. As with the previous evening, however, he did not ask further. Instead, he simply stroked her hair and pressed his lips to her forehead.

An intense feeling of serenity and satisfaction descended upon them both. Should she tell him about their bond? T'Pol wondered. She lay her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat, feeling its steady rhythm beneath her cheek.

_No_, she decided. Not yet.

There was time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Court and Spark**

**by Ragua**

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimers in Chapter 1.

A/N: Allow me to apologize for the extreme tardiness of this chapter. The cancellation and the travesty that was the f#cknale put me into such a funk that I couldn't find the happy place necessary to work on this story. Hopefully I've found it again, and you all enjoy the continuation!

Thanks to my awesome beta, my MOM! She knows nothing about _Star Trek_ and couldn't understand why T'Pol was so uptight, but she made sure I knew the difference between a duvet and a settee! Thanks, Ma! Lots of corn for you!

**Chapter 7**

T'Pol's investigation into her _tel-sa-mekh's_ spying progressed far more easily than her internal debate over what to do about the matter. A simple examination of the parlor provided ample evidence that Mr. Tucker had been spending a good deal of time ensconced in the settee by the window that looked out onto the porch. It did not, however, provide an easy solution to the problem.

T'Pol sighed. She probably should have expected curiosity of this sort from her mate's family. She was, after all, an alien. An alien intimately involved with their eldest son! To her knowledge, there were few, if any, inter-species relationships involving humans. Of course the family of any human so involved would be concerned and curious. And yet, such behavior certainly could not be overlooked! How long had her mate's father been spying on them? From the very beginning? And were such intrusive tendencies genetic? It certainly seemed as if this family had a penchant for such behavior. Were her own children doomed to become voyeurs?

Now that she knew of the situation, she was at a loss as to how to proceed. Should she confront Mr. Tucker? The young Vulcan had no doubt that the man would be mortified to discover that T'Pol knew of his questionable behavior. A similar reaction could be expected from her mate, which made informing Trip an even less desirable option. Dropping a hint to Mrs. Tucker was out of the question. T'Pol had no wish to subject Mr. Tucker to whatever punishment his wife felt the transgression merited. It was bound to be severe!

T'Pol's brow furrowed as she pondered the conundrum. It would require a great deal of thought.

Luckily for T'Pol, preparations for a Tucker family cookout provided a welcome distraction from her dilemma. The fine weather had convinced all and sundry Tuckers that an outdoor meal was a necessity. As Vulcans rarely ate in locations not specifically designated for the consumption of food, T'Pol took considerable interest in the human ritual.

The young Vulcan deduced that the tradition was an ancient one, as the preparation for the ceremony seemed to require a rather archaic division of labor based upon one's gender. Apparently, the majority of the food was to be cooked outdoors, and this task was the purview of the human male. Every family member of that gender took up stations around a firepit known as a "barbecue," despite the fact that only Mr. Tucker seemed to be involved in the actual preparation of the food. To T'Pol's eyes, the task did not appear to be overly complicated or strenuous: Mr. Tucker did little beyond placing certain comestibles on a rack over the flames. From time to time, he would flip or move an item with a pair of tongs, but for the most part, his attention was taken with discussing various topics with the other men while all of them consumed alcoholic beverages.

Mrs. Tucker marshaled the female family members in the production of non-cooked dishes. T'Pol was given a tiny utensil with a half-circle scoop at each end and instructions to use it on several large fruits that took up the majority of the space on the kitchen table. Honored to have been given a part in the ceremony, T'Pol conscientiously reduced the watermelon, cantaloupes, and honeydews into dozens of perfect spheres before allowing them to co-mingle in the large bowl provided. Meanwhile, her human comrades bustled about creating other dishes: wilted lettuce salad—which, despite its name, consisted primarily of spinach, potato salad, egg salad, and something called jello—a colorful, semi-solid mass that wiggled distastefully when poked.

With the salad preparation finally complete, the women straggled out of the kitchen, each carrying a bowl, tray, or platter. Frankie and Bernie led the way, one carrying a tray of condiments and the other a large container of utensils and napkins. The men had formed a similar procession as they too moved toward the picnic tables with their contributions to the meal—although their efforts were hampered by having to maneuver plates of food while maintaining a hold on their bottles of alcohol.

T'Pol narrowed her eyes, realizing that her mate was also carrying a bottle of beer, in obvious violation of Dr. Phlox's orders. Still, this was a sacred occasion. She didn't wish to disrupt the rites by bringing her mate's lack of self-control to the attention of the others. The young Vulcan surreptitiously observed the behavior of her human companions. For a ceremony that was so obviously a long-standing and revered tradition, both processions were remarkably haphazard. Perhaps other human families followed stricter protocol when observing the customs. It wouldn't surprise her in the least to learn that the Tucker family conducted ritual observances with less decorum and attention to detail than others of the species.

As with the other aspects of the ceremony, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the seating arrangements, either. Each individual deposited his or her item in the nearest empty space on the trestle table and his or her bottom into the nearest empty space on the accompanying bench. Bringing up the rear, T'Pol hesitated for a moment, uncertain, but then Trip caught her eye and patted the bench next to him. With a sense of relief, she placed the melon-sphere salad as ceremoniously as she could and moved to join her mate.

Almost as soon as she sat down, Trip grasped her hand firmly. T'Pol was somewhat taken aback by the public nature of the affectionate display. Then she realized that all around the table, family members were taking the hands of those sitting on either side. As she was at the end of the table, Carlos—sitting opposite her, next to his own mate—reached an enormous paw in her direction. The young Vulcan hesitated only a moment, then—not wishing to disrupt the ceremony—gave the human her left hand. Carlos graced her with his slow smile and then turned his attention to the opposite end of the table where Mr. Tucker was preparing for some sort of traditional invocation.

T'Pol bowed her head slightly, respectful of the formalities. Mr. Tucker cleared his throat, grinned, and launched into the speech of welcome. "Can't tell ya how great it is to have y'all here at home. Nothin' better than dinner with family. _This_ is what it's all about!" If possible, the older man's grin widened. "Now let's not let all this good food go to waste. Dig in!" And to T'Pol's surprise, the benediction was over.

Hands were dropped all 'round the table, and people began serving themselves from whatever dishes were closest at hand. Once a person had partaken of the nearest dish, each bowl, tray, or platter was circulated. There was no organization, no precision, no order. If someone wanted a particular dish, he or she would call to whomever happened to be holding it. If the transfer of the dish required it to pass through several intermediaries, those who were interested took a helping as it went by.

Sitting at the end of the table and somewhat disconcerted by the chaotic nature of the feast, T'Pol's plate remained empty for several minutes before her mate noticed the discrepancy. He quickly attempted to remedy the situation, filling her plate with a spoonful of everything within arm's reach. She came to herself and stopped him before he could contaminate the rest of her meal with a scoop of the grotesquely writhing jello.

Her mate wiggled his eyebrows at her, holding the jello up in a manner designed to tempt her. The gelatinous green blob quivered on the serving spoon, as if terrified of its impending doom. "No thank you, Trip," T'Pol responded firmly, hiding her disgust. "This will suffice for now."

He grinned in response, chirping, "Your loss, T'Pol!" Then he deposited the jello on his own plate, with a resounding "plurp!"

There was very little talk at first, as the food was enjoyed with obvious relish. T'Pol, simultaneously intrigued and appalled, observed her table mates from the corner of her eye. Now she was certain that the cookout ceremony was an ancient one. The humans were attacking the food with an even greater than normal barbarity. She knew that humans could—and usually did—eat with utensils, but the archaic nature of the cookout ceremony evidently precluded modern manners. Apparently, all the cooked items were supposed to be eaten by hand—possibly a throwback to a prehistoric era when humans killed and ate their prey around a campfire. Undoubtedly there was some explanation why the processed slabs of meat were required to be wedged between two pieces of bread prior to consumption. Perhaps a traditional ballad or folktale at the end of the meal would make it clear.

To T'Pol's relief, all the salads were designed to be eaten via fork or spoon. As a vegetarian, she would not be required to eat with her hands. Her relief, however, was short-lived. Once she had eaten enough salad to clear a space on her plate, Trip filled the empty spot with an ear of corn. Even had she not been familiar with the vegetable, T'Pol's nose would have confirmed that it met her dietary requirements. It smelled delicious! But there was still the problem of the method of its consumption. The young Vulcan had never experienced corn in its pristine form, which was not conducive to being eaten with utensils. A covert glance about the table revealed that the human custom was to smother the cob with butter and salt, and then gnaw along a horizontal plane from left to right, rotating the cob once the end of a row was reached.

T'Pol hesitated. She certainly _could_ eat it straight from the cob, if required. She might even coat the kernels with butter, even though that was an animal product. Still, an image of herself with juices dribbling down her chin and nibblets wedged between her teeth held her back. Surely there was a more enlightened way to enjoy the delicacy!

As she wavered on the border of indecision, the cob was removed from her plate. Startled, she looked up into the understanding eyes of her mate. Hiding a smile, he gently but thoroughly cut the kernels off the cob and onto her plate. T'Pol looked down at the luscious golden pile, suddenly embarrassed at having her food cut up for her, as though she were a child. She had adapted to numerous cultural differences during her short stay with the Tuckers. Why should this one create such a problem for her? She felt her cheeks flush in mortified confusion.

"Don't worry about it." Trip's low voice cut through her thoughts. She glanced up into his twinkling eyes. "It's no big deal." He gestured at her plate as he went on. "Enjoy the corn!" With that, he casually moved the butter dish and salt shaker within her reach, giving her the option of using them or not.

T'Pol suppressed her feelings as she added a generous dollop of butter to the mound of corn. They were bonded, after all. It shouldn't surprise her that he had felt her distress and responded as if she had spoken aloud. But it still amazed her. Such a small thing, a trivial thing. Yet he had come to her rescue as nobly as if it had been a matter of taking a phaser blast for her. One taste of the butter-drenched corn led T'Pol to muse—in a humanly hyperbolic manner—that perhaps it _was_ as serious as a phaser blast! On impulse, she reached for his hand. He gave her a warm smile, squeezing her fingers, and moved their joined hands under the table, so they could maintain the affectionate contact in private.

As she savored the remainder of her corn left-handed, T'Pol monitored the conversation of her human companions. For the most part, it was all innocuous small talk and chitchat. After several minutes of observation, she became aware of an increasing tension from the couple opposite her. Carlos and Daniel were definitely experiencing some sort of heightened emotion. She noticed several glances and pointed nudges pass between the two men. Whether alerted by his mate's interest or noticing the situation on his own, Trip was moved to comment on the odd behavior.

"You two are obviously burstin' with somethin'," he observed. "Why dontcha spit it out?"

Daniel and Carlos exchanged one more knowing look before Daniel cleared his throat, much as his father had prior to his brief pre-meal blessing. This was enough to grab the attention of everyone else at the table. Heads turned, food was set down, and mouths were wiped on napkins as the Tucker family came to attention.

Daniel awkwardly half-rose from the bench. "Carlos and I have a big announcement," he began.

"You're finally getting married!" Jean burst out, clapping her hands, unable to contain her joyful speculation.

"'Bout time!" Mrs. Tucker chimed in.

Danny began to laugh. "I _told_ you!" he crowed to his mate. "I _told_ you Jean would say it before Mom!"

Carlos shook his head and smiled ruefully. "I didn't think anyone could beat your Mom to the punch, _querido_," the big man responded. "I owe you ten bucks!"

Daniel grinned triumphantly. "We knew one of you would assume we were gettin' married right off the bat," he explained. "We just weren't sure who would get it out first!"

Both Jean and Mrs. Tucker huffed indignantly, but before they could say anything, Daniel went on. "And for your information, No! We aren't getting married."

This revelation resulted in no small amount of grumbling from everyone around the table. Danny held up his hands in a soothing gesture, halting the inevitable questions and complaints.

"This news is _better_!" he assured his family.

"You're finally gonna have that operation to remove your head from your ass?" Trip asked skeptically.

His younger brother stood with hands on hips scowling ferociously, while the rest of the family laughed at his expense.

"No, smartass," countered the redhead. "Carlos and I are gonna be dads!" Daniel smirked at the silence that greeted his statement, but when it went on for several moments, his smugness turned to apprehension. He looked to his partner for support.

"We applied to adopt one of the orphans from the Xindi attack," Carlos explained gently. "Our little girl is from Cuba. No one ever came to pick her up from the daycare center." The big man then took a photograph from his pocket and handed it down the table. "Her name is Esperanza."

The silence continued as everyone leaned over or craned their necks to see the picture. Then, suddenly, the table exploded with joyous delight. Hugs, cheers, tears—all appeared to be appropriate responses to the happy news. T'Pol, last in line for the picture, rose and shook the hands of the prospective parents, formally congratulating them.

The hubbub had been going on for quite a while before the young Vulcan realized that Mr. Tucker had not joined in. Carlos and Daniel, in the midst of enthusiastic backslapping and hugging, were among the last to notice. Mrs. Tucker, unwilling to allow anything to ruin the happy moment, scowled at her husband.

"What's your problem, you old crepehanger?" she hissed, the sibilants unintentionally drawing the attention of everyone at the table.

Mr. Tucker frowned and shifted uncomfortably, looking back and forth between the parents of his newest grandchild. It was patently obvious that he had something on his mind, but it was equally as evident that he didn't want to spoil the celebration. Finally, he could hold it in no longer.

"You're gonna have a baby without gettin' married first?" he demanded, his outrage at the idea palpable.

There was a brief silence, and then the humans at the table burst out laughing. T'Pol, though she found Mr. Tucker's quaint notions amusing, refrained from an emotional display.

Daniel Tucker found his voice first. "Geez, Dad, what century are you living in?" he asked between wheezes of laughter.

"Dad, for probably the first time ever, I gotta agree with Danny," Jean piped up. "Do you have any idea how old-fashioned that sounded?"

Mr. Tucker was turning an unhealthy shade of purple as he searched for the words to explain his ire. His wife moved to his side, patting his shoulder in an attempt to soothe him. Daniel also made a conciliatory gesture.

"Ya don't have to be married to have kids anymore, Dad," he explained soothingly. "I understand why some people want to go through all that hassle, but when you get right down to it, it's just a bunch of paperwork."

"Are you sayin' that what your mother and I have had for the last 47 years was just a bunch of _paperwork_?" his father demanded.

Danny backpedaled quickly. "No no, Dad! It's just that...well, it's a formality. You and Mom didn't need to jump through any of those hoops to prove that you cared for each other. I mean, you _did_, and that's great, but it was just a formality, don't you think? You don't need a _document_ to prove that you're meant to be together."

"Of course we don't _need_ it. That's the whole _point_!" Mr. Tucker glared at his son, who blinked in confusion. The older man sighed. "Son, I know you're intelligent. Hell, I've got _documents_ that say so!" he continued sarcastically. "But sometimes, I swear, your mother and I raised a half-wit."

T'Pol could not fathom the reasoning behind Mr. Tucker's statements, and from the puzzled looks being exchanged around the table, she was not alone. Her mate's head was cocked to one side, and she sensed that he had an inkling of his father's thought process, but their link did not make it any clearer to her.

Conveniently, Mr. Tucker seemed disposed to explain his position. "Son, no one gets married because they _have_ to or because they _need_ to. You get married because you _want_ to! You want to stand up in front of God and everybody and tell the world, '_This_ is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with!'" He grabbed his startled wife's hand and gave it a firm squeeze. "And if folks like the idea, well, Hell, they can come and join the party. And if they don't like the idea, well...they can go fu—"

"_Charlie Tucker!_" his wife snapped, cutting off the swear word before it escaped her husband's mouth.

"Oh, sorry, hon. Sorry, kids!" Mr. Tucker called down the table to the Monaghan children. He turned back to his son. "The point is, Dan, that saying you've made a commitment to someone you love is all well and good, but if you're not willing to holler about it from the tallest mountain top, how the Hell good can it be?"

Warming up to his point, the older man jabbed a finger at his son. "It's not about _making_ the commitment, it's about _celebrating_ that commitment and wanting to share it with everyone! If you're not willing to do that for each other, what's our little Espy s'posed to think? She'll always be wonderin' why. She'll be wonderin' if you really love each other, and then she'll be wonderin' if you really love her!" Mr. Tucker placed his hands on his hips and glared at Daniel and Carlos.

"And that's no way for a child to live!" he finished with an emphatic sweep of his arm.

The crowd around the table was dead silent, all amusement gone, dispersed by Mr. Tucker's simple yet touching eloquence. When he realized that everyone was staring at him as if he had grown an extra head, he shifted from one foot to the other, scratching his neck in embarrassment. "Well, that's it," he mumbled, suddenly interested in the ground between his feet. "Probably didn't make any sense at all."

Mrs. Tucker put her arm around her husband and pecked his cheek lovingly. "Actually, honey, it made a lot of sense." She gave him a solid squeeze before turning to gather up empty plates. "Who wants dessert?" she asked as she headed back towards the house. The party suddenly came alive again as others followed her example and began to clear the table.

Carlos and Danny stood staring at each other, perplexed.

* * *

Although T'Pol was most eager to discuss the day's happenings with her mate, she waited patiently for him to speak first on the matter. It wasn't difficult—it took him only 47 seconds to bring up the subject once they had made themselves comfortable in the porch swing that evening.

"Lots of excitement today," he mused casually.

T'Pol matched his seeming indifference. "Indeed. How do you think Carlos and Daniel will respond to your father's...advice?"

Trip grinned. "I bet Carlos would have no problem with it at all. If it were up to him, they probably woulda got married a long time ago." A frown took over his face. "Danny's always gotta be contrary, though. It's like he gets a thrill outta doin' whatever he's told not to." He cast a hopeful look at T'Pol. "The old man made a lotta sense, though. Maybe Danny'll do the smart thing for once."

T'Pol digested his words. "So you believe that your brother and his mate should get married?"

Her _t'hy'la_ looked back at her in surprise. "Well, yeah! But not just because they're gonna be raising a kid together. They make each other happy. They're perfect together!"

"Even though they are so...different?"

"I think it's _because_ they're so different that they make a great team," he answered after giving her question a moment's thought. He raised his eyes to hers and went on pointedly. "Humans have a saying: 'Opposites attract.' When it comes to relationships, I think it makes a whole lotta sense."

T'Pol knew he suspected that her question had a dual meaning, and had worded his answer accordingly. She experienced a burst of gratitude for the existence of the bond between them. It enabled her to respond in kind, knowing that no emotional risk was involved.

"Perhaps it also helps to explain our own...relationship."

She felt his smile as he pressed his lips to her temple. "I think you're right," he murmured into her hair. She leaned against him, comfortable with the physical and emotional closeness in a way that would have seemed alien to her less than a month ago.

"Do you think _we_ should get married?"

She raised her head to look at him, startled. Despite their intimacy, he was still capable of surprising her. Her mind raced furiously as she searched for an acceptable response to his question.

Unfortunately, Trip misinterpreted her hesitation. "I'm sorry," he blurted. "I didn't mean...I wasn't implying...Of course, we'll take it slow. I know you don't want to rush into anything—"

T'Pol sat up straight and took his face between her hands, kissing him gently on the lips to quiet him. Once she had his attention, she corrected his error.

"_T'hy'la_, it is somewhat ironic that you should ask that question," she began, realizing that he had provided her the perfect opportunity to discuss a very necessary topic! Trip shifted uneasily at her words, although she sensed that her use of the Vulcan term of endearment soothed his fears. "_And_ that you should speak of 'taking it slow' and 'not rushing anything.'" She eyed him speculatively, suddenly worried how he would take her news. It would not do for him to sense her fear and become more alarmed, however. She must continue.

"From the perspective of Vulcan culture, we are already married," T'Pol stated in a clear, firm voice. She intended to go on, explaining the process in detail, but her mate's evident shock gave her pause. The young Vulcan observed him closely, attempting to gauge his reaction from visual cues and emotional sensation. Trip simply stared at her, dumbfounded, his mouth open and his eyes slightly glazed. His emotions were such a jumble that T'Pol made no attempt to sort through them.

Finally, he found his voice, leaning close to ask in a scandalized whisper, "Just because we had sex that one time?"

T'Pol was about to correct his misconception, when she realized that she herself did not understand exactly _how_ they had become bonded. She suspected that the initial link had been forged well before they had engaged in sexual intercourse, but she had to admit that she had no idea how large a role carnal relations played in the formation of the bond.

Once again her silence alarmed her mate and led him to misinterpret the hesitation. "Damn, you Vulcans really _are_ old-fashioned! If I'd known it was so serious, I'd never have... Not that I'm complaining... I mean, I'm totally happy to—"

T'Pol sighed, leaning in to silence him with another kiss. She would have to explain quickly and thoroughly, before his imagination ran away with him. "Trip," she began sternly, "if you will listen, and I will explain."

He sat back in the swing, hands folded carefully in his lap, eyes as round as saucers. He looked like a young child fearing punishment. She reached to take one of his hands, hoping to reassure him.

"Trip," she said again, more gently this time. "Traditionally, when Vulcan couples mate, they spend the first year of married life together. It is during this period that a psychic bond is often formed." Trip blinked and opened his mouth, but T'Pol continued determinedly, forestalling any questions. "I believe that—due to the physical closeness required by neuropressure—you and I formed such a bond during our time in the Expanse. I suspect that our sexual intimacy merely reinforced this connection. And the mind meld most likely served to strengthen and solidify our bond."

He gaped at her a moment, blinked, and looked away. After a moment of watching him stare into the darkness, she continued. "As a bonded couple, we are married, by Vulcan standards."

She thought she had explained it fairly well, all things considered, so his reaction caught her off guard. Trip refused to look at her, focusing instead on the floor of the porch. Through the bond, she felt a wave of disappointment and despair so strong it nearly took her breath away. Before she had recovered from the assault, he spoke.

"So, this...this..." He gestured back and forth between the two of them, still without meeting her eyes. "Whatever this is between us is just a Vulcan biological thing? Our brains got hooked up because you were tryin' to help me sleep by pokin' me in the back three times a week?"

It was T'Pol's turn to be shocked. Trip believed her feelings for him were manufactured—a product, as he had said, of Vulcan biology and nothing more. He believed her feelings for him were not "real." He believed that she did not truly love him, had never loved him.

That was unacceptable.

T'Pol reached for him with her free hand, grasping his chin and forcing him to look at her. "Trip," she implored. "There can be no bond if the feelings between the two individuals do not already exist." Her eyes bored into his, willing him to understand. "Many Vulcan couples endure decades of marriage without ever forming a bond. My people refer to marriage as a bonding, but only those couples who have true feelings for one another experience a bond such as ours."

He wanted to believe her. She felt it. But he was unsure, insecure, afraid. Afraid of her. It pained her to think that he should fear her. They were bonded! If nothing else in life was certain, their link _was_. How could he fear it would be lost?

Guided by instinct rather than logic, T'Pol moved her hand up the side of his face to the contact points. She opened her mind and he fell in, as if gravity had pulled him into the chasm of emotions she so feared. It was all there for him to see, feel, touch, taste.

And hear.

_Do you hear me? _she asked him.

_Yes!_ he responded in wonder. She felt his breath on her face as he answered with both mind and voice.

_Do you see?_ she queried further. _Do you feel?_

_Yes!_ he said again, lips and brain whispering the word.

_Do you understand?_ she posed her final question softly.

_I do._ His response, though not verbalized, was an almost tangible cord between them.

_Show me, _she insisted.

He answered her challenge with the ancient words of her people—words that seemed so comfortable, so at home in his mind, that she wondered if they had always been there.

_Our minds, one and together. Always and never touching and touched. Apart, yet never apart. Two bodies, one soul._

T'Pol reveled as the troth echoed through their minds. She knew she was speaking in concert with him, but she wasn't sure if the words were in his language or her own. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

It really didn't matter. At this moment, in this time, nothing else existed. For their joined _katras_, no one else would ever exist.

Which was just as it should be.

They broke apart with a gasp. T'Pol was alarmed to find her mate sweaty and trembling. She reached out to steady him and found herself suddenly in his arms. Perhaps there was something to be said for overt display of emotion after all, she decided. From the way he was crushing her to his chest, there could be no doubt that he understood her feelings and that he reciprocated.

T'Pol returned the embrace with equal fervor—until she heard him make a noise between a squeak and a grunt. She released him in alarm.

"Forgive me, _ashaya_!" she began, appalled at the thought that she might have broken his ribs. But Trip followed her earlier example and silenced her with a kiss.

"Shush," he scolded, scooping her back into his arms. T'Pol relented, but was content to nestle against his chest, rather than risk his health by hugging him back.

After a long, serene moment, he finally spoke. "So, when do you think we should start hollering from the mountaintop?"

T'Pol gave it some thought. "We should certainly wait until Daniel and Carlos have made a decision about their own future marital status," she reasoned. "If we act too precipitously, our actions may have an adverse affect on their current situation."

Trip chuckled. "I love it when you get all logical, _t'hy'la_!" he teased, attempting to nibble his way down her neck.

The young Vulcan pushed him away, glaring at him sternly. "Please desist!" she scolded her mate. "We agreed to wait until Dr. Phlox has determined that you have recuperated enough for sex play."

"Spoilsport!" her mate accused, hiding a smile.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow at him, responding in kind. "I have no wish to become a widow at this early stage of our bonding."

Trip sighed theatrically, leaning back into the swing. "The things I do for you, woman!"

T'Pol hid a smile and primly situated herself in the curve of his arm. "They are much appreciated, _t'hy'la_," she responded.

A creak from the direction of the parlor almost distracted T'Pol from the peace she shared with her mate.

Almost.

She would worry about that problem tomorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

**Court and Spark**

By Ragua

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimers in Chapter 1.

A/N: My God! It's been more than a year since I wrote the last chapter? I am a bad, bad person. :-(

**Chapter 8**

T'Pol checked the state of her robes in the mirror and straightened them once again, even though it was unnecessary. However outwardly serene an appearance she presented, she could not deny the truth to herself: she was nervous. Her participation in the barbecue ceremony had been peripheral. Her participation in the wedding ceremony would be crucial.

She wondered yet again why Carlos had chosen _her_ to stand up with him. Granted, he didn't have any friends or relatives nearby, while Daniel, on the other hand, had a surplus. Still, she had only recently met the human. It did not seem logical. Or appropriate.

Finally, she could contain her curiosity no longer. "Carlos," she addressed the man abruptly. "While I am honored that you have chosen me to...'stand up' with you, I still do not understand the reasoning behind your choice."

The groom, making last-minute adjustments to his own ceremonial attire, looked up, startled by her question. After a moment's silence under her quizzical gaze, Carlos attempted an explanation.

"It just seemed to make sense, T'Pol," he said. "Danny's got his whole family here, while mine's spread out across the galaxy." Carlos chewed his upper lip pensively before continuing. "I guess there's a little opportunism and a little self-preservation involved in the choice," he admitted with a slightly embarrassed grin. "I didn't want Dan to have any time to change his mind and back out, so I guess I'm working with the materials at hand in order to expedite the matter." He spread his hands out in a gesture of apology for the honest, if unflattering statement. "But that doesn't mean you're a makeshift measure," he assured her. "I could have borrowed any one of the Tuckers to be my best person. It just seemed right to have _you_ there."

Far from being offended by this explanation, T'Pol appreciated his honesty and his logical way of looking at the situation. "I understand, partially," she responded. "The aspect that still confuses me, however, is why I seem 'right' for this honor."

Carlos's brow furrowed. "I'm not really sure I can explain it," he said, scratching his chin. "It's just...from our first meeting, you felt like a kindred spirit to me. Quiet, reserved. A would-be outsider—if the Tuckers would allow such a thing." The large man grinned affectionately at the thought of his soon-to-be in-laws. Then he raised his eyes to hers, his grin becoming sympathetic. "You got lured in by one of these crazy Tuckers, too. They're a completely illogical mess to be around, but not being around them would be unthinkable."

T'Pol considered his description of their mutual situations. It was a very apt analysis of the feelings she had for Trip. Apparently, Carlos's own love for Daniel was much the same. She inclined her head, acknowledging his perceptive interpretation. "In view of your explanation, it now seems a very logical decision," she said.

The big man smiled in appreciation and went back to straightening his suit. After a moment, he commented over his shoulder, "Plus, those gorgeous robes will be a really classy addition to the wedding party."

The young Vulcan cocked an eyebrow at his mischievous grin and turned back to the mirror to straighten the outfit in question one last time.

oOoOoOoOoOo

T'Pol need not have worried. In the words of Mrs. Tucker, the wedding ceremony itself went off "without a hitch." The local Justice of the Peace, drafted at the last minute to administer the rites, had either been well-briefed beforehand, or, being a local, he was familiar with the peculiarities of the Tucker clan. Either way, he did a very good job of sticking to his own script and overlooking the ad libs of the wedding party and their relatives.

In fact, T'Pol had been somewhat surprised that the ceremony had been so staid. The only obvious deviation from tradition had occurred at the statement, "If any know of any impediment why these two should not be joined, let him speak now, or forever hold his peace." The young Vulcan would not have been at all surprised if the various members of the Tucker family had taken the opportunity to insert editorial comments, but they did not.

In the brief moment of silence it was Carlos, of all people, who spoke. "Last chance to run away, _querido_," he whispered so softly that only the betrothed and their seconds could hear. T'Pol cast a concerned glance at her own mate, standing a pace behind his brother. Trip met her gaze with a speculative look of his own, then returned his attention to the drama before them.

Daniel Tucker raised his eyebrows at the challenge. "Last chance to escape the nuthouse," he responded in kind. Carlos merely grinned. His mate returned the smile. Trip let out his breathe in exaggerated relief, tilting his head at T'Pol and winking. The Justice of the Peace ignored them all and went on with the service.

Once the vows had been spoken and the officially-joined couple had paraded up and down the hastily assembled aisle of folding chairs, allowing themselves to be pelted with uncooked grains, the ceremony quickly devolved into a gathering much like the family barbecue, only with far more people.

T'Pol knew that her mate came from a large and extensive family, but she had never expected to encounter them _all_ in a single setting. By her estimate, there were as many as 150 humans present for the reception, only a handful of whom she knew well enough to speak to. Trip had obviously intended to keep her by him, and thus assuage the stress of encountering throngs of new people, but the enthusiasm of relatives and old friends who had not seen him for some time soon thrust them apart.

Not wishing to inhibit the familial interaction he so obviously enjoyed, the young Vulcan retreated to a shaded area near the buffet tables. It provided her with a brief respite from the tumult of human emotion being expressed as far as the eye could see. At one point, Trip looked over in concern, but, utilizing their newly-realized bond, she assured him that she preferred anonymity to attention in this setting.

After several minutes of human watching, T'Pol realized that she was not alone in her secluded niche. David Monaghan was standing several meters from her, hands in pockets, feigning interest in the beverage selection. From time to time, he would scan the assemblage and then hunker down behind the table more solidly. Like herself, the boy appeared to be hiding.

T'Pol suspected the young human was unsure of how to socialize, and with whom. There were other adolescents at the reception, but they were all older than David's thirteen years, which seemed to be intimidating to the newly-minted teen. Of the other children present, his sister Bernice was the next eldest, which left a four-year-gap on the lower end of the age scale. David obviously had no inclination to join the younger children in their games, which seemed to involve a great deal of running about and squealing.

T'Pol hesitated a moment, then walked over to the awkward boy. "It is agreeable to find that I am not the only person overwhelmed by the magnitude of this social function," she commented smoothly.

David jumped slightly, startled to find that he wasn't alone. After a quick glance at her and a clearing of the throat, he mumbled an agreement of sorts. "Yeah."

"Vulcans do not normally interact in such large numbers," T'Pol said. "Nor with such emotionalism," she added, after observing a group of older women shrieking with laughter. "I would, however, like to learn more about your family. Perhaps you could help me, so that I do not later misidentify any family members?"

The gawky teen nodded and tentatively began to point out individuals and explain to the Vulcan who they were and how they fit into the family. After a few moments, the young man warmed up to the task, providing T'Pol with far more information than she had originally desired. Still, it was not at all tedious. As a cultural informant, David Monaghan was a veritable font of knowledge. T'Pol closely followed every detail and asked questions when she needed clarification.

The young Vulcan certainly didn't get a dossier on every single family member present, but it wasn't due to a lack of effort on David's part. The human boy had morphed from sullen teen to enthusiastic family archivist before her eyes. Aunt Rosie apparently made the best hush puppies this side of the equator, but no one in the family said so openly, because it might hurt the feelings of Great Aunt Mildred, previous holder of the title. Cousin Minh had just won entrance to Johns Hopkins at the tender age of seventeen, but she wasn't "snotty" about it at all, which seemed very important to David. Grandpa Charlie and Uncle Deke had a long-running argument over which Roman emperor had been the "nuttiest," and it often resulted in "flare-ups," "fireworks," and sometimes "tussles" at family gatherings.

"Once, when I was little," David said in a hushed voice, "Uncle Deke smacked Gramps across the teeth with a copy of Marcus Aurelius, and Grandpa Charlie put him in a headlock and started bashing him with Suetonius! Grandma and Aunt Beezy got 'em to stop before they did any real damage, though."

T'Pol got the distinct impression that David was hoping for a "tussle" or at least some "fireworks" between the old men before the day was over.

Despite the fairly convoluted genealogical variations present, all relatives not of one's nuclear family fell into two categories: aunt/uncle and cousin. Whether one relative was considered an uncle or a cousin by another seemed to depend on generational differences. For example, James Tucker—whose creatively-groomed facial hair elicited much enthusiasm from his young third cousin twice-removed—was a contemporary of Mr. Tucker, and therefore "Uncle" Jimmy. In contrast, eighteen-year-old Fergus, a surprise late-in-life child of David's Monaghan grandparents—David had become slightly embarrassed attempting to explain the colloquialism "whoopsie"—was referred to as a cousin, rather than an uncle.

There were, however, some exceptions to this unwritten and perhaps unacknowledged rule. Some relatives, much older than thirteen-year-old David, were still referred to as "cousin." Her informant's editorial comments about these individuals led T'Pol to the conclusion that such an address was a subtle form of censure. Cousin Anna had "been through five husbands already!" (T'Pol was uncertain if Cousin Anna's marital abundance was the result of widowhood or divorce.) Cousin Dodie was "dumber than a box of rocks, and only half as interesting," and Cousin Rick was "a legend in his own mind."

David's eloquent dissertation on the various relatives present was interrupted suddenly and rather violently when an older man appeared and put the boy in a headlock, vigorously rubbing his knuckles against David's scalp. "Davy, kiddo!" the man said far too loudly. "How're ya doin'?"

T'Pol, who had been moving to stop the assault, hesitated. The man's comments implied that he and David were familiar with one another. Yet his actions were certainly not being welcomed by the young man, who was unsuccessfully trying to push the interloper's hands away. The Vulcan suspected that this man was a "cousin," despite being older than any of the Tucker siblings—thus far, the only people she had seen giving others what David called "noogies" were teenage boys.

Suddenly, the man released David and turned to her, listing to one side and grinning maniacally. T'Pol was so distracted by his bloodshot eyes, stubbled face, and alcohol-laden reek that she was completely unprepared for the impertinent pinch he gave her bottom.

"And you're Trip's Vulcan hottie! Nicetameetcha!" He tacked a greeting of sorts onto the assault on her person.

Even had she not been fairly well-versed in human manners, David Monaghan's horrified expression would have been more than adequate to illustrate the severity of the impropriety. "Cousin Travis!" the boy's adolescent yelp cracked across several octaves. "I can't _believe_ you did that!"

Cousin Travis waved off the boy's reproach, continuing to leer at T'Pol. "Ah, don't getcher panties in a bunch, kiddo. I'm just bein' friendly."

David was at a complete loss. He clenched his fists and shifted from one foot to the other, obviously wanting to defend his Vulcan guest and her honor, but unsure how—the person doing the offending was an elder, for all he bore the ignominious title "cousin." T'Pol, although certainly irritated at the repugnant human on her own behalf, was moved more by a strong sense of protectiveness for her young comrade. This intruder's casual disrespect for the boy who had been so kind and helpful to her was completely unacceptable. She could not allow it to continue.

"An uninvited pinch to one's behind is an accepted form of friendly greeting?" she asked Cousin Travis in a deceptively bland monotone. "I am unfamiliar with this custom."

"Well, some folks are just friendlier than others, I guess," Cousin Travis replied, directing his comments more to her breasts than to her face.

"Then the polite thing to do in this situation," T'Pol said, "would be to return the gesture?"

Cousin Travis's grin grew even bigger, and he held his hands up and out to the sides, as if inviting her to be "friendly" in return. So T'Pol leaned forward and did so.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Trip was in the middle of catching up with his cousin Janey and his Uncle Ike when he noticed they were craning their head to look around him. He swiveled around to see what had grabbed their attention. A crowd was gathering over by the refreshment table.

"Looks like some kinda to-do!" Uncle Ike said. Then, eyes lighting up, he added, "Maybe your Daddy and ol' Deke are at it again!" He hustled off in the direction of the commotion without so much as a "see ya later!"

Janey rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Might as well go check it out," she said. Trip chuckled and offered his arm to his cousin. As they made their way slowly to the tables, a sliver of concern snuck into his brain. Hadn't T'Pol been standing over here? If those old fools had involved her in their dumbass argument...!

Trip shuffled along even faster, dragging his cousin behind him in his sudden fear. Their bond would have let him know if something was really wrong, wouldn't it?

Arriving on the outskirts of the group, all Trip could make out was a buzz of conversation and sporadic laughter from the crowd. He left Janey and was attempting to shoulder his way through, when one of his relatives turned and saw him.

"Trip, honey," Aunt Beezy greeted him with a wicked smile and a voice full of profound satisfaction. "Don't look so het up. Your little Vulcan gal's just done havin' a little...cultural exchange."

"What?" Trip squawked. "What happened? Did somebody..."

The crowd, recognizing his right to be front and center, parted to let him through. When he finally got to T'Pol, she was standing quite unharmed, raising an eyebrow at him, as though surprised at his concern. David Monaghan was standing next to her with a huge shit-eating grin on his face.

His ne'er-do-well cousin Travis Beauchamp was lying face-down in the dirt at their feet.

Trip looked up at T'Pol, torn between consternation and amusement. "T'Pol, what did you do?"

After a quick, conspiratorial glance at David Monaghan, T'Pol replied, "Your cousin informed me that a pinch is considered a friendly greeting."

Trip's levity disappeared instantaneously. "What the—? Sonofabitch! Did he—?"

T'Pol held up her hand to quiet her mate. "And, having been the recipient of such a friendly greeting, it seemed only polite to respond in kind." As she lowered her hand, she flicked it explanatorily at the unconscious form lying between them.

The crowd of relatives had been silent up to this point, but now someone tittered. This was too much for David Monaghan, who erupted into hysterical laughter. This seemed to be a signal of sorts, because he was quickly surrounded by a group of older teens who all wanted the exact details of T'Pol's "friendly greeting." The rest of the crowd broke up, laughing. Several patted Trip on the back as they went, congratulating him on finding such a fine woman, while others offered verbal encouragement to T'Pol for her "wonderful manners."

T'Pol continued to stand quietly with her hands behind her back, looking innocently at Trip. Trip grinned and shook his head, then stepped over his cousin's unconscious body to stand with his mate.

"I didn't mean to abandon ya, _t'hai'la_," he said.

"You did not abandon me," T'Pol assured him. "Your nephew David was providing me with a good deal of background information about your family and its members." They looked over at the young man in question, who was now enthusiastically acting out the incident for the benefit of his enthralled cousins. "He was very upset at your cousin's...behavior."

Trip scowled down at the still unconscious individual. "Yeah, well, so'm I!"

"Your anger is understandable, _ashaya_, but completely unnecessary." T'Pol also glanced down at the inert form of Cousin Travis. "I believe the incident has been handled quite adequately."

Trip couldn't help but laugh, not at her bland words, but at her sense of self-satisfaction, which came to him loud and clear through their bond. "I think you're right, T'Pol," he agreed. "You wanna come around with me and actually meet the people David's been tellin' ya about?"

"That would be agreeable," the young Vulcan said. "I understand that there is also a strong possibility of...'fireworks,' should your father and uncle decide to 'tussle.'" Trip threw back his head and laughed. His mate's sense of impish delight at both the potential "flare-up" and the humor it induced in him washed over him through their bond. Maybe he should introduce T'Pol to the world of professional wrestling!

Still chuckling and shaking his head, Trip offered T'Pol his arm. Despite the public nature of the gesture, his mate took it without hesitation, and they stepped away from the refreshment table and the now-groaning form of Cousin Travis.


	9. Chapter 9

**Court and Spark**

By Ragua

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimers in Chapter 1.

A/N: For all the nice, nice people who have stuck it out this long, you have my abject apologies for the tardiness of this chapter, not to mention my undying gratitude for all the really kind things you always write. sniff I love you guys! sniff

**Chapter 9**

T'Pol was made aware of yet another advantage of the porch swing on her final evening at the Tucker homestead. Its sheltered location made it possible to enjoy the surroundings and solitude even during inclement weather. In fact, huddling together, warm and dry, on the slowly rocking bench seat seemed even _more_ pleasant with rain falling steadily just a few meters away. Had T'Pol been inclined to the imaginative and fanciful, as were many Earth poets, she might have entertained the symbolic notion that the elements were mourning her imminent departure. However illogical, the thought of such personification met with her satisfaction—strictly in an aesthetic, artistic sense, of course.

Her mate seemed to be harboring similar romantic ideas. Trip's arm about her shoulders, so casual and offhand on previous evenings, now seemed more purposeful. His insistent nearness, ostensibly for warmth, had a decidedly amorous bent. However much the young Vulcan was tempted to satisfy both their needs, she could not, in good conscience, endanger his health for a brief sexual fling— pleasurable though it would be! She turned her head in order to address the issue, and her mate did not hesitate to take advantage of the opportunity.

Against her own better judgment, T'Pol did not immediately dissuade him from his course of action. The enforced celibacy had not been a burden until this moment, but now the physical pleasure, combined with the mental and emotional stimulation of their acknowledged bond, made their conscious abstention seem a foolish choice indeed. As Trip's hands slipped under her blouse and caressed the warm, smooth skin in the small of her back, a not-so-distant sound reminded T'Pol that her mate's health was not the only reason for refraining from sexplay here on the porch swing. Gently, she drew away from the passionate embrace, doing her best to ignore his hopeful, persistent gaze.

"You know it is not in the best interest of your recuperation to continue these actions," she said, attempting to detach herself from his grip. His skillfully meandering fingers were making it extremely difficult to stand her ground on this issue.

"C'mon, T'Pol," Trip replied, somewhat breathlessly. "A little cardiovascular exercise would probably be a healthy thing right now!" T'Pol remained silent, trying to decide how to convince him they needed to stop, without having to resort to the embarrassing revelation that they had an audience. Sensing her indecision, but not the reason for it, her mate attempted to press his advantage. "_T'hai'la_," he whispered, moving in to nibble along her collarbone.

T'Pol felt her self control slipping, and she realized she had no recourse but the truth. "Your father is watching us," she gasped, as her mate's lips moved to the hollow of her throat.

Trip's explorations came to a sudden halt. _"What?!"_ he yelped, jerking his head up abruptly and looking around in horror. T'Pol grasped his face between her hands to silence him. Even with his face immobilized, her mate's eyeballs danced around wildly, seeking the location of the spy.

"Bernice mentioned several days ago that your father has been watching us from the parlor," T'Pol explained quietly, inclining her head ever so slightly in the direction of their audience. "I have been trying to decide how to deal with this situation since that time."

Her mate was furious. "Several _days!_ Why didn't you say somethin'?!?! Why that nasty, lecherous old coot! I'm gonna—"

The young Vulcan tightened her grip a bit more than was necessary. Trip's eyes bulged, and he quieted down. "Your reaction is _precisely_ the reason I did not inform you. I had hoped to avoid just such a confrontation," she said. "Avoiding the issue was illogical, but there appeared to be no satisfactory solution to the problem."

Trip scowled unbecomingly, his face still slightly squashed between her hands. "Sure there was. You shoulda told me, and then I'd 'a gone and pounded him into next week!"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow at her mate. "As trying as this situation is, I do not believe that violence is the appropriate response. Particularly when the culprit is one's parent," she said dryly.

Trip harrumphed. "I wouldn't really have hit him, T'Pol, but still—" He broke off, staring at his mate, who had suddenly cocked her head. "What? What is it?" he hissed.

The young Vulcan relinquished her viselike hold on his face, leaving the imprint of her hands on his cheeks. "I believe the decision about the problem has been taken from our hands." Trip's eyebrows raised in surprise, and he leaned forward for an explanation.

xoxoxox

"_Charles Aloysius Tucker Jr., what on God's green earth are you up to!?!?"_

The accusation, sounding directly behind him with no warning whatsoever, so surprised the man that he fell off the settee where he had been crouched. The sheer draperies he had been peeping through rustled softly at the sudden movement in the room. From his new location, flat on his back on the floor of the parlor, Charlie Tucker gazed up into the face of his beloved wife, who looked, at this moment, as if she were seriously considering disemboweling him.

"Lovey!" he squeaked, hoping the room was dark enough to hide his flaming red face. "What are you doing here?"

"Stopping you from spying on those poor kids, it seems," Mrs. Tucker snarled. "What in the blazes of Hell do you think you're doing, invading their privacy that way?"

"I wasn't invading," Mr. Tucker denied. "There was no invading. I was just sitting here, minding my own business."

"Your own business? How is your son's private time with his sweetie any of your business, you dirty old man?"

xoxoxox

"What's happening now?" Trip whispered, his anger entirely gone, replaced instead by curiosity.

"Your mother has accused your father of poor hygiene," T'Pol responded in a puzzled tone. "As questionable as your father's actions are, I fail to see how his cleanliness applies to the situation."

Trip blinked for a second, confused. Then, as the wheels turned in his head, he chuckled slightly. "Did she call him a 'dirty, old man'?" he asked. His mate's eyes widened in surprise, and she nodded. "'Dirty' is a human slang term. It's often used to describe someone with an...um...inappropriate or excessive interest in sex."

His mate nodded in understanding. "I expect this idiom is used quite often on Earth, then." For a second, Trip thought he had seen T'Pol smirk, but on closer inspection, her face was as serene and expressionless as always. Shaking his head, he grinned and leaned in again as she continued to monitor the confrontation between his parents.

xoxoxox

Charlie Tucker knew he was in the wrong, but he was not about to allow his motives to be so misinterpreted. He drew his tattered dignity together and sat up cautiously, eyeing his wife's hands for wooden spoons, spatulas, or other instruments of retribution. "I'd say grandkids are my business," he said, casting a sullen eye in the direction of the curtains. "And we won't be getting 'em any time soon, at the rate those two are going."

"Grandkids? Charlie Tucker, you already have three, no, _four_ grandkids!" his wife exclaimed in exasperation.

"Yeah," Mr. Tucker admitted reluctantly, "but the only way we can get a Charles Tucker IV is if Trip gets up off his butt and gets busy." The old man couldn't help leaning over to peep out the curtain once again. "And it doesn't look like that's gonna happen any time soon. It's like the boy doesn't know how babies are made." He turned back to his wife with his hands on his hips and snorted in disgust.

Mrs. Tucker eyed her husband suspiciously. "It sounds to me like a lot of excuse-making from someone who got caught bein' a Peeping Tom," she snapped.

Her husband narrowed his eyes and let out a slow breath. Instead of continuing to defend his own actions, he went on the offensive. "Well, it seems to _me_ like a lot of judging someone else based on what your own mind's thinking."

Now it was his wife's turn to cast a steely glare. "What are you trying to say, you old fart?"

"I'm not _tryin'_ to say anything," her husband retorted. "What are _you_ doin' down here in the parlor so late? And how do _you_ know what Trip and T'Pol are up to out on the porch?" As his wife gaped at his counteraccusation, Mr. Tucker crossed his arms over his chest in a self-righteous huff. "Looks to me like there's a question of who the dirty old fart _really_ is!" he added triumphantly.

But Mr. Tucker's victory was short-lived. After a deathly silence, his wife hissed venomously, "Charles Tucker, Jr., did you just call me _old_?"

xoxoxox

"Your father is attempting to escape by leveling a countercharge against your mother," T'Pol announced in a low voice. Even as a Vulcan and a newcomer to the family, she suspected that her _tel-sa-mekh_ had made a very foolish mistake.

Her mate's reaction confirmed her assessment of the situation. "Uh-oh," Trip muttered, his brow furrowing in consternation. "What did he say?"

"I believe the phrase he used was 'dirty old fart,'" T'Pol replied. Trip's eyes widened in horror. "I can see that being compared, even metaphorically, to flatulence would be insulting, but is it truly grounds for such concern?" she asked, worried by her mate's alarming reaction.

"Well, the fart thing isn't good," Trip agreed absently. "But...he called her _old! _Mom's kinda touchy about her age." He shook his head. "He's a dead man."

xoxoxox

>

"Now, hon," Mr. Tucker said nervously, "you know I didn't mean it like that." He raised his hands placatingly, fully cognizant that such posture could also be helpful should a defensive position be warranted. If nothing else, he had diverted her attention from his spying. But it seemed to be a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire!

Mrs. Tucker advanced on her husband menacingly. "So you think I'm old, do you?" she said. "Probably eyeballing all those sweet young things at the grocery store and wishing you were with one of them, instead of this wrinkled, old woman?"

"No, no! There's no one on the planet but you!" Mr. Tucker assured her, backing hastily away. "You're the only woman in my life! As beautiful now as the day I married you!" But she went on as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"Well, how do you think I got this way? Keeping your house. Having your babies. Raising your children—"

"Now stop right there, woman!" Mr. Tucker spoke sharply. "Don't you talk about our babies as if they were some kind of horrible burden! You're mad at me, sure, but that's just not right!"

His words reached her, and the two combatants stood in silence and glared across the room at each other.

xoxoxox

Trip waited breathlessly to see what would happen next. The porch swing had stilled, and the only sound the human could hear was the rain pattering on the ground and the roof. He was dependent on T'Pol for the next update in the family drama unfolding a short distance away. The Vulcan sat with her head cocked, listening intently, just as intrigued as her mate. Finally, Trip could stand the suspense no longer. He poked his companion in the ribs. "What's happening?"

"They seem to have reached an impasse," T'Pol responded. "Your mother's words indicate that she believes marriage to your father and the inevitable procreation that followed, is at fault for growing old. Your father, in turn, took exception to what he viewed as an attempt to blame the children for the natural aging process." T'Pol shook her head. "Your parents do not seem quite rational at the moment."

Trip shook his head in resignation. "This moment or any other moment, T'Pol," he said wryly. "Still, it gives us an opening." He grinned mischievously and cleared his throat.

"You know, we can hear you out here!" Trip called out toward the parlor in a raised voice, not quite a shout. He gave T'Pol a querying look, but she shook her head after listening for a moment. Trip went on. "And kids really, really hate it when their mom and dad fight!" He locked eyes with T'Pol, smiling as they waited for some sort of reaction.

xoxoxox

The Tuckers' mutual glares turned to looks of shared horror as their eldest son's words carried to them from the far end of the porch. They continued to stare at each other, mortified, neither knowing what to do at having been caught in such a compromising position. Their frozen posture lasted for a several seconds, as Trip's words about fighting hung in the air. Then Mr. Tucker took one long stride toward his wife, reaching out a hand. She grabbed the proffered lifeline willingly, and together they scurried from the parlor hand in hand.

xoxoxox

Now that their discovery had negated the need for stealth, Trip did not need his mate's acute Vulcan hearing to know that his parents had beaten a hasty retreat. The squeaking of the floorboards in the parlor was quickly followed by muffled thumping up the stairs to second floor of the house. Once the sounds had died away, he refocused on T'Pol. Shaking his head in chagrin, he finally leaned away from his mate. He allowed his head to hang over the back of the porch swing as he scrubbed his face roughly with his hands. Then his fingers slid up into his hair, and he pulled at it in frustration, letting out an enormous sigh.

T'Pol leaned back as well. They sat quietly for a moment, shoulders barely touching, hands laying next to each other on the bench seat. Finally, Trip returned his attention to his mate. "Geez, T'Pol, how can you put up with us? I mean, that woulda been a bad scene even if you had been human! I can't even imagine what a Vulcan must be thinking about that...that...farce!"

The Vulcan in question gazed up at her mate. She sensed a modicum of personal embarrassment, but most of his reaction was outrage for her sake. "While I admit that it is certainly a...strange situation, I do not find it offensive or insulting." Trip threw her a thankful smile that said he appreciated her words, even if he didn't believe them. T'Pol went on, attempting to convince him. "Your father's actions were motivated by concern for you, and by a desire for grandchildren. Most species share a similar interest in matters that affect their family."

Trip sighed. "Do most species demonstrate their concern in such a whacked out manner?"

T'Pol shook her head. "No. In that, your family is—even among humans, I suspect—unique." She hid a smile, but knew that her mate had again sensed its presence. She felt his body relax slightly.

"Do you think you can stand it, _t'hai'la_?" Trip asked earnestly, rolling his head over on the swingback to catch her eyes.

She returned his look of utter seriousness and answered without any levity whatsoever. "Now that I have experienced it, _ashayam_, I could not stand to be without it. _Kashkau dah, katra wuh."_ She covered her hand with his.

Trip released a breath he had not been aware that he was holding. Then he turned his hand over so that their fingers might entwine. "Two minds, one soul," he repeated, smiling at her in perfect understanding.

They sat peacefully, holding hands and looking out into the rain.

Epilogue to come


	10. Chapter 10

**Court and Spark**

**Epilogue**

By Ragua

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimers in Chapter 1.

A/N: I know that many people asked for more chapters, not to mention a wedding, but this is where I had always planned to end the story, so I hope no one will be too upset. Considering that the last few installments had to be blasted out of me with dynamite, even if I had planned more, I don't think it would be a good idea to keep going!

The rain had stopped sometime during the night. Sun and rain-washed freshness lent a hopeful note to her final day at the Tucker house. T'Pol wondered if some kind of poetic symbolism might be in order, but the cacophony of her farewell ceremony soon drove all such academic thoughts from her mind.

The entire family had risen early to see the young Vulcan off, and Mrs. Tucker made a large breakfast in honor of the departing guest. (Mr. and Mrs. Tucker seemed determined to pretend that the events of the previous evening had never occurred, and T'Pol was happy to go along with the charade. Her mate was inclined to make snorting noises through his nose and give his parents pointed glances, but after a mental nudge from T'Pol, he refrained.)

During the course of the meal and the overly complicated leave-taking that followed, each member of her new family felt the need to make a personal statement of farewell, all of which involved the presentation of a gift. This necessitated the opening and closing her duffel numerous times, in order to safely stow a handmade pair of earmuffs from Frankie, a brief family history compiled by David, a bronzed putter and set of colored golf balls from Daniel and Carlos, a picture album from Mrs. Tucker, and a diamond-cut platinum tool set from Mr. Tucker. Gerald and Jean Monaghan presented her with a beautiful afghan of Aran wool, but it wouldn't fit in her bag.

Finally, with all the goodbyes said and the entire, good-natured, noisy family milling about on the front porch, Trip managed to maneuver both T'Pol, himself, her duffel, and the afghan down the steps. After some negotiating, T'Pol shouldered the duffel and Trip the afghan. They then linked arms formally and started down the gravel pathway to the landing site. As T'Pol looked over her shoulder to wave one last time, Bernie scurried down the porch steps and across the lawn.

The look on her mate's face suggested that he was worried the child intended to accompany them. T'Pol had to admit some concern on that score herself. Bernice, however, simply skidded up to them, stuck a large manila folder in the side pocket of T'Pol's duffel, and scrambled back up the porch steps to wave goodbye with the rest of the family. The young Vulcan raised a questioning eyebrow at her mate, but he shrugged. Whatever Bernie's gift, it was a mystery to him as well. The child's actions suggested that she did not wish it to be revealed before a large audience, so T'Pol left the folder in its location.

As they walked along the path to the landing pad, T'Pol noticed that their progress slowed with each passing step. Granted, they had not begun the journey with the greatest of speed: Trip's injuries were still serious enough to make simple locomotion a chancy endeavor. However, their current reduced pace seemed less the product of a slow healing process than of a reluctance to part ways, even temporarily. But T'Pol had duties and responsibilities, including a visit to her own family on Vulcan. Her mate still had a great deal of recuperation to accomplish. Their separation would only be temporary; they would be together on _Enterprise_ soon. Still, acknowledging that fact did not seem to be making her departure any easier.

T'Pol felt a need to confront the dejected silence. "Your family is very—" The comment died an abrupt death, as she could not think of an adjective capable of describing the Tucker clan.

Her mate seemed to understand, though. "Yeah," he replied with a grin. "They are."

As they rounded the corner that took them out of sight of the house, Trip slipped his elbow from hers, reaching for her hand, instead. They continued their plodding pace, slowing even further as her long-neglected shuttle came into view. T'Pol twined her fingers through her mate's. "Will you have any difficulty returning to the house without assistance?" she asked.

Trip glanced at her sidelong and smiled. "I don't think so." His smile dissolved into wistful contemplation. "Not physically, anyway," he added, raising his eyes to hers. T'Pol returned his sentiment, gently squeezing his hand. Trip went on in a more practical vein, "Anyway, even if I did have any problems, the whole posse up at the house would be on the lookout." He glanced over his shoulder, glowering at the now-invisible relations. "Dad's probably got the telescope trained on us right now."

T'Pol tilted her head. "One would hope he had learned his lesson."

"Meh," Trip grunted noncommittally, obviously still perturbed at the revelations of the night before.

This conversation had brought them right up to the door of the shuttle. They stood for a while, quietly holding hands and looking at the transport, as if it would somehow solve their problem. Finally, Trip sighed and released her hand to open the door. He gently set the afghan in the passenger seat of the craft and turned to her with his hands out. She passed him her duffel without a word, and he set it atop the afghan. He kept his back to her, taking an inordinate amount of time to secure both bag and blanket with a restraining strap meant for a sentient passenger. Even without accessing their bond, T'Pol knew he was prolonging the simple task in order to curb his emotions.

When Trip had her cargo strapped in to his satisfaction, he turned to face her again. They stood looking at each other in silence for several moments. Then T'Pol reached out her hand. Trip grasped it as if it were a lifeline, but he made no move to come closer. She sensed that he did not want to burden her with his emotional response to their separation. So they stood and stared at each other. Finally, her mate could stand the charged silence no longer.

"It's only for four weeks," he said with a forced smile. "Phlox says I'll be ready to return to duty in just four weeks." He wiggled his eyebrows at her, trying to lighten the mood. "Duty. And _other_ things. In just four weeks!"

T'Pol, appreciating his attempts to make their departure less painful, played along. "According to my calculations, you will be fit for...duty...in only three weeks and four days." Her mate's smile grew bigger, until it was a _bona fide_ leer. "In fact, I have contacted Dr. Phlox about your rehabilitation." Trip's smile faded. Had he heard an _entendre_ where there had been none?

"Phlox has drawn up an extensive plan to restore you to your previous level of health. Diet. Exercise. Physical therapy." T'Pol drew a PADD from her pocket and handed it to her mate, who stared down at it, crest so very fallen. Instantly regretting her joke, the young Vulcan leaned closer and whispered huskily in his ear, "Three weeks and four days. It is imperative that you be in optimum condition at the end of that time." She pulled away slightly and held his eyes with her own. "It would be...disappointing...if you were not able to perform your...duties...to the best of your abilities."

Trip stared at her, mouth agape, eyes beginning to glaze. T'Pol woke him out of his reverie by pressing her lips against his. He responded with such alacrity and fervor that any fears T'Pol might have had about his continued recuperation were swept away. She participated in the pleasurable farewell just long enough to make sure her mate was sufficiently motivated. Then she gently eased him out the shuttle door—but not before confirming that the PADD with its vital itinerary was in his hands. He stared at her dazedly from the landing pad.

"Three weeks and four days," she reminded him. "Optimum condition." When he continued to stare at her like a phasered Rigellian, she prodded him to action. "Trip. Your first session is _today_." Her mate blinked and dropped his eyes to the PADD clutched in his fist. Then he looked up at her again, his dazed look transforming into a delighted grin.

"Three weeks, four days," he confirmed. "Optimum condition!" Clutching the PADD to his chest with one hand, as if it were a precious treasure, he gave her a thumbs up with the other. T'Pol nodded in satisfaction and pulled the door down until it latched.

Her mate waited off to the side of the landing pad as she powered up. Once the shuttle began its lift, he waved. T'Pol raised her own hand in farewell, then turned her attention to the controls. As the shuttle banked, the manila folder Bernie had tucked in her duffel pocket slipped to the floor of the shuttle. Its contents came to a rest near the Vulcan's feet. T'Pol deftly snagged it with one hand.

It was a beautiful pastel sketch of the Tucker's house, as seen from the woods. T'Pol could just make out the porch swing, from the artist's vantage point; it held two figures, one blond and one dark-haired. The Vulcan leaned in closer. Two tiny points—ears—were just barely visible though the dark hair. T'Pol set the sketch gently on top of her duffel. Bernie—obviously a precociously gifted artist—had titled the piece "Home."

Impulsively, T'Pol banked the shuttle, turning so that she would be able to see the house from the air. She felt her eyes fill slightly as she spotted it though the trees. Swallowing, she reined in her emotions, and banked again. The movement brought the shuttle low enough to spot a figure shuffling away from the landing pad. T'Pol angled down a bit lower to confirm that it was, in fact, her mate. Trip seemed to be having no mobility problems as he moved rapidly toward the house. Even from her altitude, T'Pol could see that his eyes were riveted to something held in his hands: the PADD with the recipe for optimum conditioning.

T'Pol banked the shuttle once more, sending it back into its original flight path. She craned her neck to catch one final glimpse of both house and human before they were swallowed up by the trees. Her mate. Her family. Her home. Emotions were roiling through both her mind and body in an alarming fashion, and yet she was not at all bothered by them. The privacy of the shuttle cabin ensured that any emotional display would not be inappropriate.

T'Pol smiled.

FIN


End file.
